


It's A Trip!

by maroon



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Bottom Connor, Dirty Talk, Drug Use, F/F, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, PLEASE HEED THE TAGS, Rough Sex, Spooktober, Stalking, Top Markus, Torture, Violence, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 06:52:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16341917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maroon/pseuds/maroon
Summary: “I thought it was sweet, when your boyfriend left it. You must really be working hard.”“My,” Connor runs a gentle fingertip over the sketched arc of his nose. Does he really look that delicate? That… beautiful? “My boyfriend?”The girl grins. “Yeah, he came in this morning and he asked me to give this to you if you stop by. He’s so romantic. You’re so lucky!”Connor’s heart thunders. “I am?”





	It's A Trip!

**Author's Note:**

> again: heed the warnings and hop off if you think this isn't your cup of tea
> 
> this is for spooktober ! 
> 
> prompts: stalking, obsession, negative emotions, bad memories, rough sex, dirty talk. 
> 
> yes i did clump all of that together. to all those who sent in those prompts, thank you. 
> 
> concrit is appreciated ;^)
> 
>  
> 
> [my blog](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/rk-1k)

For the first time in a long time, Markus is in love.

He didn’t even know love could feel this way. Freeing. It’s like whatever mattered then, didn’t matter now. His mind’s been opened, his muscles lax. Atlas still has the world on his shoulders, but Markus doesn’t. Not anymore.

North looks up at him from the brim of her coffee cup, her brown eyes twinkling. She’s happy for him, he can tell. He can tell a lot of things, but with the love of his life, well.

Connor... isn’t an open book. Maybe that’s why Markus loves him. Because there are covers to peel, and he has to _work_ to open them. Love is patience, after all.

And Markus has always loved a challenge. Or two.

“You look chirpy,” North comments, putting down her cup with a dull ‘thunk’ against the wooden table. He helped her sandal this down just last month. It was originally for the house she and her wife was trying to buy, but it fell through. Someone else got a better deal with the man selling it. Markus feels bad for her, but there’s always better homes out there.

Alice—that’s North and Kara’s eldest daughter—needs somewhere bigger to play in, anyways. And it’s not like North’s hurting for money, either.

Markus knows.

He’d extend his help, but North’s a headstrong, stubborn woman. If she says she doesn’t need it, then it’ll stay that way, even if she’s wrong. Still, though. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

The dark, shiny brown of his coffee stares back at him when he looks down at it. If he turns it this way and that, it glints like the way Connor’s brown eyes glint. Markus smiles.

Falling in love is fun.

“Something’s happened,” Markus begins, and North smiles, steepling her hands underneath her chin. It’s the pose she goes to whenever she’s listening intently. He reluctantly looks away from his coffee to grin back at North. “I met someone.”

Dark eyebrows arch up, “Anyone I know?”

Markus thinks about it. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Care to share her,” she pauses, smiling a little, then continues, “or his name?” She casually asks, and Markus shakes his head, dropping his chin down to his chest to stare back into his coffee. It’s lukewarm by now, but he can’t bring himself to finish it.

With a blink, he tosses the warm coffee to the back of his throat, until it’s all gone. It curls inside his stomach and warms up his whole body. That’s better.

North tilts her head, a lock of wavy amber hair falling across her forehead. Kara keeps telling her to tie it back, so it won’t get on her face, but as always, North doesn’t listen. Maybe Markus should buy her one of those sixteen in a pack hair ties. She’s always out and about, anyways. Far more active than him. She always asks him if he wants to go on runs with her, but he has other things to do.

Like his job, for one. He’s good at his job.

And now that Markus has got Connor in his life, well…

A fluttering little feeling runs up and down his spine. Almost like a shiver, but warmer.

Welcome.

Markus is in love, and he wants to keep Connor all to himself for a little while. North understands, doesn’t she? What with Kara, and all.

“Ah,” North hums wisely, if a little bit arrogantly. “Keeping her a secret, huh? I get it, I get it.” She waves a hand through the air, effectively ending that topic.

With a smirk, she comments, as if an afterthought, and Markus is _pleased_. “Good to see you without eyebags, though.”

Connor’s good for him. That’s… that’s good.

She immediately begins a new topic, and Markus volleys, something more casual, something that doesn’t involve Connor. Something like Leo, being a drugged up pain in the ass, trying to mooch money off of him.

But… Markus is thankful. This thing between them—him and Connor—is fragile. Connor’s _…_ not one for secrets, despises them, actually, but Markus understands.

It’s better to know what you’re getting into, first, before going around and parading what might fail.

Markus is sure it won’t, though.

They’ll just have to trust each other.

**

Josh is with him today. They’re strolling about the marketplace, and Markus kinda likes it. He likes spending time with Josh. There’s this bookstore they always go to, filled to the brim with books with pages you can actually turn, and Markus _loves it_ here. Carl used to take him here a lot, until, well. Until he passed.

A sudden pang of sadness courses through him, though it’s forgotten when they enter the shop, the bell tinkling, and Josh smiles at him kindly before walking in after him.

The man behind the counter, red haired and kind-faced, nods at them and continues to write something down on a blue notebook. Markus knows it’s the inventory. Jerry always does the inventory when he’s around.

It’s fine, Markus has the layout memorised, anyways. He doesn’t need help.

“We have new books,” Jerry says without looking at them, though Josh looks back at him. “Third aisle.”

“Thanks,” Markus heads towards where Jerry said, and smiles giddily when he notices the paperbacks of the books. They’re all old, of course, but new to his eyes. He’s never seen these titles before.

Vladimir Nabokov’s _Pale Fire_. He knows all about _Lolita_ , but he hasn’t seen this one. He tucks it underneath his armpit and moves on to the second book. _Misery_ by Stephen King. Markus watched the movie with Carl before. _The Secret Garden_ , by Frances Hodgson Burnett.

Josh clicks his tongue when Markus pulls out the book, marveling at the childish cover, the fanciful feeling it brought. “That’s a good one,” He says, and Markus regards him with a side-glance, before putting it back. He doesn’t really like children’s books.

Markus drags his fingertips across the ridges of the books, tracing their spines until he came across the word _Athena_. He tilts his head and pulls it down to stare at it.

 _ATHENA_ , it boasts, and underneath it, _John Banville_.

Big dark eyes look up at him, plump lips and a strong nose, stuck in a state of beautiful wonder, overlaid with sepia tones. The smell of the pages are heavenly and nostalgic.  

He doesn’t think twice as he tucks it underneath his armpit alongside _Pale Fire_.

“You done?” Josh asks, his hands stuffed deep into his coat. The holidays are coming in fast. He wonders if the love of his life is having a hard time at work because of the weather.

Markus nods, and they head for the counter, only to find that Jerry had deserted his post, a tall woman with light blond hair and dark skin now standing imposingly behind it. She smiles at both of them, all teeth and deep dimples, and rings him up with nary a word.

He likes the silence.

**

Markus likes cop shows. _Miami Vice_. _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_. _Law and Order_.

Now that he thinks about it, maybe the love of his life being a detective was something that fate wanted. Markus laughs to himself, leaning back into his chair with one of the books he bought on his lap. Josh left a few minutes ago, having cooked him dinner and made sure his back door was locked. Markus still has to lock the front door, though.

He’s going to go to bed in an hour. He just wants to finish this book. He lets his head fall to the side, pressing against his shoulder. The clock reads six-fifteen. He adjusts accordingly. He’s going to bed in half an hour.

Markus doesn’t want to miss his call with Connor, after all.

His TV is playing something inane, though Markus keeps it on so the sound drowns out the noise from the outside. He really doesn’t have the energy or will to go out and shout at his neighbours.

He puts down the book and pads over to his office, flipping open the lights. Might as well get some paperwork done; it’s not like he has anything better to do until after half an hour.

Markus sits down and begins sorting through the many billings, shaking his head at every subpoena that regards his brother and his brother’s habits of trying to steal their father’s paintings. Now, he’s even resorted to stealing Markus’. And he knows he’ll never press charges; his father would be downright pissed if he landed his brother in jail.

A groan makes it past his lips as he pinches the bridge of his nose, reading and rereading the summons about his brother.

He’s going to ignore it.

After the half hour has passed, Markus stands up and puts the books into his bookshelf. _Athena_ , by John Banville first. And then _Pale Fire_.

Something hard hits his fingers when he digs back into the paperbag, and he smiles when he pulls out the faded copy of _The Secret Garden_. He puts it last, with the S’s, and decides it’s time for him to call it a night.

Josh’s stir fry sits untouched on the table.

His room is the most lived in part of his house. He likes painting, you see. Anything that has to do with art. Sculpting, photography. He has a litany of polaroids tacked up on a board, and whenever he looks at it, his heart flutters when he sees Connor, smiling right at him.

Markus took that photo just as Connor looked his way, his eyes closed from laughing too much.

Beautiful.

North and Kara’s picture sit right beside Connor’s, the amber-haired woman’s arm hooked around Kara’s shoulders, Kara’s arm around her waist, and Alice perched happily on North’s hip. They’re staring at something, small smiles on their faces.

Markus keeps forgetting to give North this picture. He knows she’ll love it. She loves anything that concerns Kara and Alice.

With three strides, he’s by the corkboard, picking up the polaroid and inspecting it. This was taken in the house North was supposed to buy.

He knows she’s trying to outbid the man who offered a higher price again.

Markus owes North a lot. She was there when he needed her the most, she was there when Si—

He immediately cuts off the thought, pinning back the picture to stare at the calling card beside it.

Another time, he thinks.

Unbidden, Connor’s voice crackles through the room, warm and beautiful. “ _No time like the present_ ,” He says with a laugh, as if he was reading Markus’ mind. And that makes Markus smile, though he doesn’t remember when or when he dialled Connor. But he’s here now, and Markus doesn’t dislike that, not at all.

He drags his fingers across his nightstand, before picking up the small phone, bringing it closer to his ear. Connor mumbles something Markus can’t quite hear, so he presses the phone closer to his ear, curling atop the hand holding it, laying perpendicularly across his bed.

Sun’s starting to set, Markus thinks blearily. Connor’s voice never fails to lull him to sleep. He’s never told anyone yet, that he can—that he can sleep again.

The man—the love of Markus’ life—chatters on about his day, talking about the cases he’s solving or has solved, and Markus comments about the noise in the precinct, smiling when Connor acknowledges it with a, ‘ _You know, I really should have bought ear plugs_ ’. The thought of Connor stuffing his ears with ear plugs makes him smile.

Connor’s voice is deep, but not in the way that’s scratchy, or growly, it’s mellow and pleasant to hear, and Markus almost laughs at the thought of the people he arrests saying nothing as they’re being interrogated as to listen to Connor speak. He’d probably do the same, if he ever was detained.

His eyelids droop, and he places the side of his face onto the phone, so he can hear Connor better, letting the man’s voice wash over him, talking about the grotesque drug deals gone wrong, homicides, a dead man eaten alive by his own pet pigeons, Red Ice dealers, a possible lead from a man yet unknown, until Markus can see nothing but Connor’s pretty brown eyes and wide smile.

“Good night, baby.” He mumbles.

The reception waivers, but Connor’s voice still rings loud and clear. “ _Good night to you too_ —”

**

The smell of bacon wakes him up, and the first thing he thinks about is Carl, and then Connor. Connor can cook, he knows this. He cooks and bakes for his colleagues all the time. Scones, pies, there was even one time where he brought a cake to celebrate Detective Reed’s birthday.

He pads out his room after tucking the phone safely back into the nightstand, before pressing a reverent kiss to Connor’s picture on his corkboard. He’s going to visit the precinct today, maybe surprise Connor.

Anything to see that beautiful smile on his face.

North is wearing a plain white blouse that Markus remembers her wearing the first time after she and Kara got married, and it looks good on her. He says exactly that, and she snorts, calling him a flatterer. He would have thought of pursuing North had she not been married, or had he not met Connor.

But as it is, the only one Markus loves is Connor. And even though North doesn’t wear her wedding ring, he knows she’s ‘off the market’, per se.

Thinking of these things makes Markus want to tell North about Connor. Like he used to do, back then.

Connor’s lips wrap around the words. _No time like the present_.

He casts a look towards the clock.

One hour until he’s needed to show up to work.

“Josh says sorry that he can’t give you a ride to work.”

Markus shrugs. Josh has a life outside being his friend. It’s no big deal. “That’s why you’re here,” he replies good-naturedly, and North nods, before placing a plate of sizzling bacon and some toast in front of him.

“Coffee?”

She eyes him, before pointedly sipping at a bright orange cup. “You got legs,”

“Yeah, but you’re closer.”

Dark red lips purse. “...No.”

“You’re a bitch.”

She laughs, full-bodied and lilting, and something in Markus lifts up. He likes making people happy, he suddenly remembers.

North shakes her head and leaves her mug in the sink, opening the tap to run it once under water before walking towards the door, where she says, “Get your own coffee, get showered, get dressed. I’ll be waiting in the car.”

He only nods. North always treats him like this—like she doesn’t trust him to do things on his own. Ever since S—

Before the though even starts, Markus clamps down on it, shoving it into the back of his mind. It’s no use, thinking about someone who left him.

He’s got no time dwelling on things of the past. There’s only the future, now.

Sure enough, he follows North’s instructions, showering and putting on his clothes. He picks up his coat and house keys before leaving out the door, making sure everything’s locked before he goes.

North’s on the phone, leaning against her car when he looks up, eyebrows furrowed, and hand waving through the air as she talks rapidly to the person on the other end of the line.

Markus stops, opens the door and runs into his room. He picks up the calling card beside North’s picture and pockets it.

 _No time like the present_ , Connor says in his mind, ethereal and beautiful. He’s right, Markus muses, briskly approaching North, who drops the call angrily and quickly. She puts on a smile for him, but he knows better.

He doesn’t say anything, though. North hates it when someone catches her at a time of distress.

“Let’s blow this joint,” She smirks, sliding into the driver’s seat, and Markus mirrors her, closing the car door with a dull thud. It smells like cigarettes, and Markus carefully doesn’t point that out, either. North only smokes when she’s stressed out, or had a fight with Kara.

He’s sure it’s both.

**

He works at his father’s arts studio. Well, it’s his now, he supposes. Leo isn’t really there to contest his claim on their father’s fortune, not when he treated their father like that. But that doesn’t stop him from trying to cheat Markus out of his inheritance. It’s honestly starting to get on his nerves.

Markus thinks about the company once more. They make everything, from paintings to sculptures to movie props, and Markus likes his job. He’s good at it, although he’s not good at managing it. He tries, though.

North drops him off with a smile and a promise to come eat lunch with him, but Markus declines, stating he needs to finish some props today. Which is true, and now that he’s looking up at the huge slab of latex and litres of corn syrup, he thinks that maybe he should have taken North up on her invitation to lunch.

Ralph, one of his employees, doesn’t meet his gaze when he walks in, in his hands crates of new scalpels and other sculpting tools, all stainless steel, of course.

“Thanks,” Markus takes the crate from Ralph’s arms, eyebrows furrowing when he notices the puffy scars on the side of his face. Ralph flushes under his gaze and continues to look away. “You okay?”

The concern must be palpable on his face, because Ralph’s mouth opens and closes, before he flushes a darker pink and nods.

“Tell them not to bother me until lunch, okay? If they need anything, they can buzz me.”

The man tightly nods and rushes away.

Markus watches him go, and he doesn’t really know what makes him do it, but he calls after Ralph, who tenses and all but jumps at the sound of Markus’ voice.

“Can you get me a pot of coffee?” He politely asks, “I’ll be in here a while.”

Ralph nods again. “Ye—” he stutters, eyes resolutely not meeting his. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

Markus tilts his head. “There’s no rush.” He tells Ralph, who grips at his wrist before he all but runs out. The man’s a nervous one, isn’t he?

A small laugh is scoffed out at the sighs of Ralph rushing out, and Markus plants his hands on his hips, regarding all the work he needs done before lunchtime comes around.

He sighs. “Right. Work.”

**

Prosthetics. It’s hard work.

Markus grunts as he lifts up the half-made torso, wondering how much they’ll make on this project. A lot, he’s sure. He doesn’t need the money, and most of it’s going to the employees anyways. There really isn’t anywhere else paying thirty dollars an hour. _Manfred & Co. _is a good company; his father made sure of it, and the only thing Markus can do is uphold what he created.

A knock startles him out of his reverie, and Markus looks up to see Traci, blue-haired and pretty, poking her head by the door.

“We’re going out for lunch,” She informs him, “You want anything, sir?”

Markus shakes his head, wiping red paint off of his hands and onto his apron. Traci pouts and laughs when Markus helplessly motions a hand towards the litany of half-finished body parts.

“Should I flip the card to ‘closed’, sir?”

He shakes his head. “I’ll be going out in a bit. I’m going to finish those vases for the indie film?”

Traci nods, dimpling at him. “You work too much, sir.” She comments good-naturedly, and then she’s gone.

Markus pads over to his desk, picking up his coat with the tips of his thumb and pointer finger. He pulls out the card and stares at it.

Connor’s voice shoulders its way into his mind and tells him, with a pretty little smile: _No time like the present!_

He washes off the paint and carefully peels off some of the latex stuck onto his arms, hissing when it pulls on his arm hairs. After he’s put his coat back on, he heads out, straight for the subway.

He’s got a phone call to make.

**

North isn’t at all surprised when the realtor calls her up and tells her the other bidder backed down. She twists the ring around her finger and forces herself to tug it off, tucking it into her bra before running to her car.

She’s been after that house for awhile. Six months, actually, and Kara’s been fighting with her about it for the last two. It’s getting to Alice, she knows, she sees it when Alice grips the straps of her backpack too tight, asking if she could spend another weekend over at Luther’s.

Alice deserves a home. Not one dingy apartment in the dangerous parts of town and one bungalow at the lip of Detroit.

God, _Kara_ deserves a home, especially now that she’s two months pregnant. North pulls at her hair.

She feels like a shitty mother, like a shitty wife, a shitty fucking _person_ , so she’s unsurprised and _grateful_ as she pulls up to the house, where the realtor is standing in front of it, scratching the back of his head surreptitiously as she climbs out of her car.

It doesn’t feel right, of course. Her stomach clenches at the possibilities of what happened, though only one makes her shiver and sweat, her knees all but buckling as she catches the eyes of the realtor, who looks immensely confused and cheated.

“Hi!” She calls out as she eases herself off of the support of her car and towards the man, resolutely not thinking about what happened to make the other bidder change their mind. Blonde hair and blue eyes come to mind. She bites down on her lip. “Hi, the other bidder backed down?”

He regards her with a slightly cheery _Doctor Åkerman_! and North smiles to herself, wondering just how much of the Hippocratic Oath she’s breaking.

But she pushes it all aside just because wants to hear he answer to her question from the realtor.

He laughs and shakes his head. “Yeah… it was real funny, actually, he rang me two hours ago. Said you needed it more than he did.”

Her stomach drops. Just how much does he know?

In spite of that, she grins and extends her hand, letting the man wrap his fingers around her bare hands. She didn’t have the time to put on gloves in all the haste.

“It’s mine, then?” She asks, gripping tightly around his fingers until she’s sure it hurts. The man winces, and finally, his eyes flicker in plain confusion, and North sighs. So he didn’t get to the realtor, just the… just the bidder. Good. That’s good.

The man clears his throat before he says, “Of course,” he coughs, repeating, “Of course. I have the, uh. Uh,”

North smirks. “Paperwork?”

“Yes. Paperwork. It’s inside the house. If you have the time—?”

She smiles some more, feeling the press of her wedding ring tight against her breast. She hates feeling trapped. She hates owing someone. She hates knowing that someone knows her weaknesses.

North tried so hard to keep her secret. But she’s really just no match to him, isn’t she?

“Just a few minutes. I have to go see someone.”

**

Markus places the scalpel down carefully, before taking his own chin and looking down at the line of prosthetics he’s just finished.

Connor is leaning his hip against Markus’ desk, crossing his arms as he furrows his brows in that way that he always does when he’s thinking deeply about something. When he’s figuring something out.

“Looks good _.”_ He murmurs, and Markus regards him, smiling down at the man. Connor’s so beautiful, and he never lies. Markus knows. Connor would never lie.

His lips twists as he asks, “Is it?”

The smaller man casts a look at Markus and opens his arms, letting Markus wrap his own arms tightly around a tapered waist, lacing his fingers over the warm curve of Connor’s lower back.

“You know it is,” Connor looks up at him with those big brown eyes, the side of his lips quirking up into a proud little smirk. Markus presses his nose into Connor’s hair, smelling his familiar, calming scent of roses and gun powder, a little bit of leather, and clings onto him much more tightly, as if he’d disappear if Markus let go.

Connor laughs, tsks at him as he pulls away, the pretty little smile back on his face as he cradles Markus’ cheek in his hand.

“I have to go,” He says, and Markus pouts. Connor doesn’t have to do anything. He can stay here, with Markus. He’s done so before. “Can you let me go, please?”

He shakes his head and tightens his hold around the smaller man, feeling the softness of Connor’s sweater, the worn folds of his jeans. He’d worn the same thing the first time they met. A dark blue sweater over a baby pink dress shirt, tucked into dark, almost-skin tight, but well worn jeans, and steel-toed boots. Markus had thought he looked like a mess then, but honestly? It was one of the reasons why he fell in love with Connor.

The man was as beautiful as he was fashion impaired.

Connor’s lips brush against Markus’ chin.

“I’ve been thinking about telling North,” He says conversationally, and Connor stills in his arms, swallowing audibly, much like Ralph, who nervously ran out of his office a few hours ago.

“Oh?”

He pulls away from the man, looking down at him. “Do you not want me to?”

Connor’s eyes flicker away from Markus’, and then back. His eyes are honey-brown.

“It’s up to you,” He runs a finger up Markus’ chest, before booping his nose with a cheeky little grin. He’s beautiful. He’s the only one for him. “It’s all up to you.”

With that, he stands up and gets his coat, slinging it over his shoulders. Markus takes Connor’s wrist—small, unassuming, delicate—in his hand.

Connor tugs himself away, smiles at Markus, and goes. Markus knows he’s gone when he hears the doorbell chime.

He sits there, on the table Connor vacated, curling and uncurling his fingers, until North swims into view, her face stony and familiar. She’s got one hand on his shoulder, and Markus looks up at her, then back down to his hand.

“I really love him,” Is all he says, and North’s eyes squeeze shut, before she’s dropping onto her haunches, her forehead pressed against Markus’ knee.

Her chest rattles as she sighs. “Alright.”

**

Markus had thought about sending flowers every Thursday of the week, whenever Connor does his weekly debriefing with Captain Fowler. He likes red carnations. But that would be too forward, wouldn’t it?

Today, Markus is standing in front of the station, a bouquet of red carnations in his hands, and North in the car a block away. He doesn’t want her to cramp his style, after all. Connor’s getting out in a few minutes, if he isn’t wrong, and he rarely is, because he knows.

He fidgets on his feet, wondering if he’s got leftover latex or fake blood on his body, but he knows there isn’t. Still, it’s a heady thing, waiting for Connor like this.

Soon enough, Connor walks out of the station, tucking his hair back over an ear, his duffle bag swung over a shoulder. Usually, he hitches a ride with his partner, a gruff man with stark grey hair named Lieutenant Anderson, but Markus—Markus is going to walk him home today.

When Connor looks up, it’s right at Markus, and at the bouquet of flowers gripped in his hands, and he furrows his brows, letting out a small laugh. He chances a glance over his shoulder, but returns those pretty brown eyes back to look up at Markus.

“Those for me?” He asks.

Markus grins, “I—I saw you, and I,” he falters on his words, letting embarrassment seep onto his features. He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “If you want,”

This close, Connor’s eyes are golden. Markus realises that gold is his favourite colour. “Do I have a choice?” He laughs again, eyes not once leaving Markus’. He’s so much smaller than him like this, but he’s really just two inches shy of Markus’ height.

Connor deigns to take the bouquet, instead taking one step back. “Thank you, but—”

He’s cut off by someone’s voice calling his name, deep and scratchy, and soon enough, Connor’s gruff, old partner shuffles outside, shoving his arms into his leather jacket. Lieutenant Anderson eyes Markus and then dangles his keys on a finger.

“Wanna hitch a ride?” He asks, willfully ignoring Markus.

Something sparks inside Markus, making him grip the flowers tighter. Connor seems to pick up on this, because his face shifts from conflicted to apologetic, reaching out to take the flowers from Markus with a sheepish, boyish smile.

“Thank you for these,” He says, obviously feeling bad for Markus, “Red carnations are my favourite.”

“Alright,” the Lieutenant says dismissively, “let’s go home, Con.”

But before he goes, Markus, again, clings to him, his hand wrapping around Connor’s wrist—small, soft, delicate, but strong—to stop him from going, and Connor’s eyes widen, his lips thinning.

“Dinner,” Markus mumbles, “Dinner, tomorrow?”

Connor tugs himself away.

“No,” He politely rebuffs, and his partner is a huge, imposing shadow behind him, “No, I’d have to decline.”

And just like Connor in his art studio, he’s turning away from him without a word, the sound of a car door slamming the only thing that really signals that Connor’s gone.

North is tapping her fingers against the steering wheel when he walks back, her hair pulled tight into one of those braids that she does whenever she’s out running. She’s wearing something she doesn’t normally wear, a thick turtleneck just as dark as her jeans.

She stares at him, eyes unfocused. She seems surprised.

“How,” North begins to ask, “How’d it go?”

“I’ll just have to try again.”

A tight nod. “Ah. Hard to get?”

Markus shrugs and gets into the car.

“Maybe.”

**

 _Athena_ is a good book, but it pales in comparison to _Pale Fire_. So Markus goes back to the bookstore with Josh, and picks up _Enduring Love_ by Ian McEwan. He and Josh sit shoulder-to-shoulder in the park, Josh humming to the song pouring out of his earphones, and Markus quietly reading his book. He’s finished and sent out the prosthetics to the movie studio they were needed in, and they were surprised that he’d finished it with a week to spare.

What can he say? When he’s inspired, he _works_.

Markus shivers. The cold seems to be coming in quick and harsh.

He thinks of buying North some mittens. Josh would benefit in a new coat, since the one he’s wearing is a bit… worn down. And maybe a scarf, for Connor. Bright red. That’d suit him, make his skin a little bit more flushed-looking, his beauty marks a little bit more stark.

It’d hide the triad of moles by the back of his head, though, where the line of his hair ends. Markus quite likes that part of him.

Markus pauses in his reading to look up at the nearly balding trees. He itches to draw, but he didn’t bring his sketchbook along with him. He distinctly remembers leaving it on top of the kitchen counter.

Josh tips his head to the side, crossing his legs, before addressing Markus. “You seem preoccupied.”

Markus hums.

“Care to share?”

“Met someone,”

Josh perks up at that, a small smile on his face. He fully turns his head towards Markus, pulling one of his earphones off. “Oh?” He pauses, as if thinking and rethinking his next words. Markus doesn’t blame him; many people watch what they say around him. “Should I be worried?”

His eyebrows dip over his eyes at the question.

Still, he answers. “No,”

“Then okay,”

It feels like Josh is giving him permission, for some reason. Something niggles at the back of Markus’ head. He doesn’t like it, but he appreciates the words coming from Josh’s mouth.

Josh nods, as if he was convincing himself, “It’ll be good, you know? We can…” He nods some more, a genuine smile stretching his face. “We can move on.”

He chances a look at Markus, sitting up as he hastily tacks on, “ _You_ can move on.”

Markus’ brows furrow even deeper. “From what?”

There’s only Connor, now. He’s all that matters. There’s no past; only a present, and a future. With him. With Connor.

Josh makes a noise, nodding again, muttering North’s name under his breath. Markus ignores him in favour of going back to reading _Enduring Love._

This park was the one Carl loved to frequent, back when he’d been alive. Leo came with them, sometimes, when Markus was younger, and they still had a functioning family, but then Leo… and then Carl, he…

Markus sighs. The park is showing off all the beauty of an impending winter, the fiery leaves and the people walking around in their thick coats, hand in hand, children laughing as they jumped on piles of dead leaves.

This is also the park where Connor usually takes his dog out on walks, and the park where Connor runs early in the morning and late at night, usually alone, so it surprises him when Connor comes up the curb with his not only his dog—a black and white Border Collie named _Nines_ —but also a huge Saint Bernard in tow, which means—

“Connor, wait the fuck up!”

Markus’ face carefully sours. The Lieutenant.

His stomach churns when Connor laughs, bounding forward and spinning around to run backwards, his long legs encased in tight leggings with neon blue lining, his sneakered feet sure and light as he prances before the Lieutenant.

“Keep up, Lieutenant,” Connor teases, “How ever will you catch criminals with that horrifying stamina?”

The Lieutenant wheezes, “With my fucking _car_ ,”

From this distance, Markus can see the way Connor’s lips curl, and Josh follows the line of his sight, letting out a low whistle. Markus doesn’t appreciate that, so he lets it be known, lips downturning into a sneer.

Josh immediately backs down.

He schools himself when Connor comes a few metres near him, leaning back casually and returning to reading his book. Josh smiles and closes his eyes, head slowly bobbing to the beat of the song he’s listening to.

Markus pinpoints the exact moment that Connor spots him, because his steps falter, and the dogs whine in surprise. But Markus knows Connor won’t walk away.

He _knows_.

“Hi,” Connor breathes, half his face covered by the shadow of his cap. “Red carnation guy.”

Markus looks up, raising his eyebrows, shoulders lax and mouth agape in surprise. “Markus. My name. My name is Markus.”

Josh snorts, and Markus elbows him.

Connor, seemingly comforted by the fact that Josh is finding all of this hilarious, falls lax and open, his posture friendly and not closed off, like that night outside of the precinct.

“Marcus,” Connor tries out the name. “With a C?”

“K,”

“Interesting,” The man smiles, and Markus does, as well. The Lieutenant comes up the path, breaking the moment between the two of them. Markus refuses to glower, instead holding Connor’s gaze.

A hand extends to shake Markus’, “I’m Connor.”

Emboldened, Markus pulls himself up to his full height and regards Connor, who looks up at him to make up for the sudden difference in height, eyes blinking rapidly. His pupils dilate.

“There’s a diner,” Markus begins, “near that art supply store. Would you—?”

Connor snaps out of his daze, “I—I’d,” he bites his lip, effectively cutting Markus off. Rude, but he’ll let it slide. He’ll do just about anything for Connor. “No. I’m sorry.” He finishes, laughing nervously as he pulls away from Markus.

He shakes his head and looks over his shoulder, at the Lieutenant, who is looking at both of them, two of his fingers wrapped lazily around the Saint Bernard’s collar. “I just wanted to thank you, again, for the-the flowers, and uh. Please don’t come to the precinct again.”

“How about you give me your number, then?”

Brown eyes seem to waiver, and Connor begins to fidget where he’s standing, tugging at his fingers. Maybe he’s unused to someone courting him. Well, it’s no matter. Carl taught him how to be the perfect gentleman.

Connor shakes his head again, giving him a faint smile before he jogs back to the Lieutenant and the dogs. “Good bye, Markus with a K.”

Markus waves after him, which Connor returns, albeit reluctantly.

Josh makes a noise of thoughtfulness.

“He seems like he’ll be a tough nut to crack,”

A grin slashes through Markus’ face. He sits back down and begins reading _Enduring Love_ with a renewed fervor. Markus likes a little bit of a challenge, especially when the prize is so sweet.

**

Markus still calls Connor at night. Still listens to him drone on and on, though he’s never bored by the man, no topic is ever too plain, everything Connor says just lights up Markus’ life. Tonight, he’s muttering about the case he’s been assigned to for about a month now, something about a fledgling drug lord, and Markus intently listens in, humming as he curls over the phone.

“ _It’s… it’s really disgusting, what lengths people go to, just to get that next hit.”_ Connor says it with no little amount of derision, and someone snorts in the background. It’s the Lieutenant, obviously.

 _“Slippery motherfuckers too,”_ the Lieutenant comments. Markus looks up at the ceiling, at the map of Detroit he’d painted there when he was younger. Leo’s scraggly handwriting encompasses the uglier, scummier side of Detroit, saying just that. _Scum_.

Markus wonders where his older brother is, now.

His ears perk up when he hears his brother’s name—really, it was just _Leonardo_ —and he sits up, cradling the phone against his ear. Connor’s voice is quickly becoming more agitated, and Markus can imagine him tugging at his hair. Judging by the slightly muffled tone he’s taken up, he’s sure Connor is biting at the skin around his pointer finger, something he does whenever he’s in severe distress.

What was that that Carl had always said?

 _Two birds with one stone_?

No, no, it went a little bit differently, right?

Markus hums.

“Killing two birds with one stone.”

**

“Can I get a chicken empanada?”

“Get me a cookie,”

“And a chocolate chip cookie,”

“Oh, and a blueberry scone.”

“And that. Heat it up, please? Thank you.”

The teenager behind the counter boredly rings North up, before shuffling to the back to heat up the food they’ve bought. Markus has appropriated the booth closest to the door, chin in hand, looking out the huge glass panes. It’s dark outside, gloomy, and so is Markus’ face. North would bet Markus hasn’t seen his Connor for little more than two days, but that’d imply that she didn’t know, and she knows. More than she ought to, and more than Markus would want, but this _is_ her job.

As his friend, as his—

 _Ding_!

“Your food, ma’am.”

North tucks her hair back and wishes she has her ring around her finger. “Shit,” she mutters, digging into her purse, “Can you fill this with coffee?”

She casts a look over at Markus, who has begun twirling a pen between his fingers, eyes vacant. He’s still staring out into the streets. North surreptitiously takes out her phone and checks for messages, smiling to herself when she opens Kara’s message of her, Luther, and Alice in front their new home, all of them throwing up peace signs. Kara’s wearing that turtleneck dress thing, draping elegantly over her baby bump. North bites her lip to dampen her smile. Beneath it, Kara says: _missing you_.

Typing out a quick _be home as soon as I’m done here_ , she hits send and shoves her phone back into her purse. The teenager hands her back her thermos and she hands him a tenner, to which he grins at. Markus is doodling on a napkin when she walks over to their booth, completely focused on the task at hand.

“Cookie?” She offers, and Markus takes the article of food from her hand, smiling, before going back to his sketching. She’s unsurprised that it’s Connor, and North leans on her elbows to see more, Markus indulging her by turning the napkin just so she can see him painstakingly dot in the man’s beauty marks.

She comments, “Pretty.”

He answers, “He is.” then, after a beat, he continues. “I’ve been thinking about Leo,”

North leans back against the stiff leather of the booth’s seat. “That can’t be good,”

Markus hums and finishes shading in Connor’s hair. He shrugs. North sighs, taking a sip from her thermos. She tips the container towards Markus, silently asking if he wants some. He shakes his head and continues sketching.

“What’s the plan, then?”

He furrows his eyebrows. “Plan?”

“Yes,” North concurs, “About Leo?”

Markus smiles, shaking his head. He stands up, going towards the counter, where a woman is currently cleaning the top of the display case, beginning his conversation with her with a boyish, charming smile. She blushes and makes a little cooing noise when he gives her the sketch, pointing towards the door, and then checking his watch.

North averts her eyes.

The woman is smiling at Markus’ back when he walks out the door, and North follows, tucking her food back into her purse. She’ll eat it at the clinic.

Before she puts the car in drive, North grips at the steering wheel, the sound of leather creaking the only sound inside the clean little Hybrid. Markus is staring out the window, seemingly bored. He’s wearing a black turtleneck and jeans, a dark peacoat over it. North also takes note of the olive green beanie on top of his head.

“Markus,” She begins, “Do you need my help?”

He smiles and says no. “Just worry about Kara and Alice, hm?”

“You—” The skin around her knuckles are white. Her ring is burning against her breast. “Markus—”  

“I’ll tell you when I need you.” Markus cuts her off, his mismatched eyes looking right into her, telling her things that she fears, weaving its way to curl around the back of her mind, a heterochromic reminder. One green, one blue. One for Markus, one for Si—

North shivers.

“Whatever you say goes,” She tries to joke, and Markus laughs, tapping his fingers against the armrest to his right, eyes dragging away from her to look at the gloomy skies.

“Connor likes the cold, you know,” Markus says offhandedly, and North doesn’t answer, quietly driving back to drop Markus off at the studio. “Carl did, too. He loved the snow.”

“Want me to drop you off at the cemetery?”

“Sure.” Markus smiles, peaceful and kind. North’s stomach churns at the sight of it. He’s wearing leather gloves. “It’s a nice day to pay a visit.”

**

It’s funny to think that his brother still has some guilt in his body. Markus has always thought that the parts in his brain that elicited sympathy, guilt, empathy, was all choked up with bits and pieces of Red Ice.

Markus stands beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and looks at his father’s gravestone. _Carl Manfred_ , plain and stark against the dark marble. Markus was the one who picked it out, not that Leo didn’t try fucking their father’s gravestone up. He did try, and he failed.

Leo stiffens now, as he finally notices Markus’ presence, doped up as he is. For God’s sake, he’s even twitching. “Mark,” He stutters, “Markus.”

“Leo.”

His older brother laughs, rubbing at his nape. His hair is long and scraggly, but his clothes are clean and pressed. Markus tips his head back to look at his father’s gravestone. “It’s been awhile.”

Markus shrugs.

Leo continues, “You look good.”

He ignores the petty small talk. He knows why Leo is here, and it’s not because he’s visiting their father. The way he fidgets, shifting from one foot to the other. It’s the first thing he does when he wants something. Acts like he’s pitiful. And he is. “You’ve been busy,”

His brother’s grey eyes cloud over in confusion. Markus can hear him swallowing nervously. “Ye-yeah,” he struggles to keep up his guise.

“Job hunting, really, you know? It’s fucking harsh,” Leo laughs as he toes at a leaf, “Look, Markus, I’m in a bit of a bind—”

“You’ve been peddling Red Ice, haven’t you,” Markus states monotonously, because he does know. Of course Leo is peddling the country’s most popular drug and snorting up the rest he isn’t selling.

Leo’s always loved having his cake and eating it, too. It’s why their father never saw him as a viable person to inherit money, let alone the company. It’s partly the reason why Markus hated him in the first place. His shit attitude killed their father, drove away their mother, and Leo, he—Markus shakes his head, driving the thoughts away.

Well, not anymore.

“Why—what the fuck are you talkin’ about?” Leo scoffs, “You’ve always been like this. _I_ ask for help and you, you— _accuse_ me of shit I didn’t even do—!”

Markus, fed up of his brother’s bullshit, takes him by the elbow and pushes him forward. “We’re going to have a little talk. Brother to brother, you know?”

Leo tries to buck him off, but his grip is tight and secure around his arm.

The rumbles of a bus covers up Leo’s shouts, and Markus follows it with his eyes, as they trek back to Leo’s car, looking for all the world two brothers having a little row.

A smile worms its way through his face.

Connor will _love_ this.

**

“This is,” Hank licks over his dry lips, “This is fucking disgusting.”

Connor casts him a baleful look, one hand on a cocked hip, his hair tucked back into a cap. He’s been dragged out in the middle of the night to investigate a recent homicide in the neighbourhood. He’s unhappy, but it’s not like he doesn’t love his job. Hank’s right; this is disgusting, but he has to admit, there’s a kind of grotesque beauty to it.

He pads over to the body sitting in front of the piano, her fingers situated on the ivory keys. It looks like it’s been… glued onto it. Connor looks over her shoulder and to the man standing a ways beside her, his eyes unseeing but somehow managing to portray that he’s looking at her, elbow propped at the very right lip of the piano.

The man’s eyes is scooped out, and inside it are tiny little crystals, shining when he inspects it with his torch. He pulls out a pair of tweezers from his pocket and an evidence bag, picking up what seems to be Red Ice, chunks of it. It seems right at home against the coagulated maroon red of the man’s eye socket, and when he takes the chunk out to look at it, not only does it glint on its own, but also with the maroon of the blood.

Connor hides the helpless shiver running up his spine.

“Have we ID’d these people yet?” He asks, turning the bit of Red Ice this way and that, noting the pattern it’s been painstakingly carved into. He can’t put a finger on it, but it seems… familiar. Hank shakes his head, poking at the woman’s head. Connor berates him and tells him to stop fucking around.

“Her head’s turned to the side,” He hums thoughtfully. Connor hands off the evidence bag to one of the passing cops.

Connor cocks his head and looks at Hank, then at the woman. Her head is turned to the side. He furrows his eyebrows and takes a few steps back, spotting the mirror situated up on top of the piano, reflecting the woman’s face, and ultimately, her unseeing gaze. She’s looking up at the man.

The scene seems familiar, somehow. He says exactly that to Hank, who just comments that it seems like whoever did this had a way with caricatures. Connor has to agree; everything is well executed, everything is _beautiful_ , and most surprising of all, everything is _clean_. A scoff works its way past his mouth.

...It’s the perfect murder.

Connor slaps a hand over his mouth at the thought. The perfect murder.

He’s finally found the perfect murder.

“Kid, you okay?”

Connor bites his lower lip. “Yes.” He turns to one of the scene profilers kneeling down beside the woman, taking pictures of her posture, “Can I get these people ID’d?”

The woman nods and takes a final picture.

“Whoever this dude is has really got an eye for fucked up,” She comments, and Connor nods. She’s right, but Connor wouldn’t call it _fucked up_. It’s beautiful.

Hank’s body is warm as he stands beside Connor, lips downturned. “You think I can weasel out of this one?” He asks.

Connor smiles softly. “The Captain would want his best on it.” And if Fowler doesn’t, Connor will make damn sure that he’ll be put on this case, partner be damned. He doesn’t even care if he’s partnered up with Reed on this one, though the pleasure of working with Hank would be much more preferable.

His partner scoffs as he distracts himself with the plain white vase on top of the table, running his finger atop the rim of it. “Sure he does. But we’re working that Red Ice thing, aren’t we? I say we got too much on our plate.”

Connor shrugs. “We did know what we were signing up for when we became _detectives_ , Lieutenant.”

Hank rolls his eyes at that. Connor’s always been the diligent worker bee between the both of them. “I got a bad feeling about this.”

He shrugs again, pulling off his gloves as he follows Hank, who has begun making his way outside. It’s surprisingly quiet outside, considering that the murder happened in a reputable suburban neighbourhood.

Though there are a few people on the front gate, poking their heads up like meerkats to take a look at what’s happening. Connor is sure they have no idea about what transpired, but still, it’s protocol to ask for any possible eyewitness.

He does that quickly and efficiently. Hank says he’s got one of those faces; boyish, pretty, with kind, wide eyes that makes you wanna tell him all your secrets. Connor always tells him he got it from his mother; in truth, he doesn’t know where he got it, but he’s thankful, nonetheless. Anything to make his job a run a little more smoother.

It wouldn’t work to look like Gavin Reed, with his weathered face and sneering lips. No one ever wants to talk to Gavin Reed. So, Connor has monopoly over soft-touch missions, and this one? Is a soft-touch mission.

As he suspected, no one knows about the murder, or has seen anyone come and go. The house belongs to one Amelia King, and Connor asks if she had a husband, or a boyfriend. They say they don’t know. They say she keeps to herself, though when prompted, is kind enough.

What they mean is that she didn’t deserve to die, and they’re baffled that someone chose to kill her.

He has a hunch, but it’ll have to wait until he’s got his hands on the profiles. It’s no use playing this like a film noir; Connor’s not some hot-shot detective who wears a fedora and a suit everywhere. Things like this work on patience and a keen eye. Most of the time, one has to put themselves in the place of the killer.

Connor, despite himself, wants to see all of this how the murderer sees it.

Hank slaps his hand against his chest and sighs, looking at the quaint little suburban home, decorated with Christmas ornaments and painted by police lights.

“You wanna grab a bite?”

It’s going to be a few hours until they put together the files, anyways. Might as well.

Hank immediately heads for Jim’s Bar, but when Connor shoots him a look, he turns left to drive towards _Cook’s_ , one of the older diners along the block. It’s subpar, but they have these amazing blueberry scones that Connor just can’t get enough of.

“Welcome to Cook’s,” A woman chirps by the counter, seemingly tired, her eyes drooping. Cook is well known for their scones as well as being understaffed all the damn time. Connor feels bad for her.

Hank goes to sit and Connor walks up to the counter; this diner works like a fast food restaurant, and Connor finds that a little bit funny.

“Three pancakes, bacon, and eggs. Over easy,” Connor begins with an easy smile, making the woman smile back, despite her exhaustion, “A blueberry scone, and a pot of coffee, please. Thank you.”

“That’ll be thirteen dollars.”

He hands her a twenty and winks at her.

She punches it in and pins the receipt up for the cook, yawning when she turns back to hand him some syrup, butter, creamer, and sugar. He tips the items up at her in thanks, and she smiles at him, tucking a thick braid behind her ear.

The waitress—her name tag says Jhene—stops in the middle of her yawn, squinting, and then scrambling from behind the counter towards the kitchen, and Connor chooses to let her be, sitting in front of Hank, who begins playing with the little container of butter.

She hustles over to them sheepishly, and Connor regards her patiently.

“Hi,” Jhene rushes out, “Someone, uh. Someone left this—” she thrusts something up to his face, and Connor would be surprised if he isn’t used to women putting napkins with something written on them up to his face on a regular basis. “—for you.”

Connor takes the napkin and thanks her.

She shifts from foot to foot. “Aren’t you gonna look at it?”

Hank snorts, immediately taking offense for Connor. He always does this. “Don’t you have a job to do?”

Connor shoots her a placating smile and places his hand over Hank’s arm, trying to calm him down. He’s always so cranky in mornings, but he’s not the one who was forcibly dragged out from cuddling his dog while in well deserved, deep sleep. So, Hank needs to chill the fuck out.

He begins speaking before he even opens the folded up napkin, “It’s…”

Connor blinks.

“It’s you,” Hank tacks on, immediately snatching the sketch from his hand. “This is fucking weird.”

He eases the napkin back from Hank, looking at the sketch with wide eyes.

It _is_ him.

“I thought it was sweet, when your boyfriend left it. You must really be working hard.”

“My,” Connor runs a gentle fingertip over the sketched arc of his nose. Does he really look that delicate? That… beautiful? “My boyfriend?”

The girl grins. “Yeah, he came in this morning and he asked me to give this to you if you stop by. He’s so romantic. You’re so lucky!”

Connor’s heart thunders. “I am?”

She makes a little _mhm!_ sound.

“Did he have different coloured eyes, kid?” Hank gruffly asks, and the girl _swoons_ , nodding. Hank scoffs and crosses his arms, “The dude’s not his boyfriend. Just a regular old creep.”

Jhene slides into the booth beside Connor, opening the sketch back up. She points at it fervently, her lips drawn into a passionate line. Connor smiles at her. What a plucky girl.

“Whoever takes the time to do that isn’t creepy. It’s romantic and cute. If I had someone like that do this,” She stabs the air, pointing still at the sketch, her head tipped up proudly, “then they obviously _care._ ”

Connor looks at the sketch. He didn’t even know that his smile tugged on his lips like that. A slow blush rises up his cheeks, and he tucks the sketch carefully into his wallet.

Hank raises his eyebrows in disbelief.

Jhene only moves away when she’s called, and Connor keeps quiet. They obviously care, huh?

Something warm inches in his stomach.

He’s never been cared for before.

“Don’t tell me you actually buy into that chick flick shit.”

He easily deflects Hank’s words, “I particularly like chick flicks. I find them… interesting. I’ve never had much time to watch movies, when I was living with my father.”

Jhene slaps his shoulder and giggles. “See, he gets it!”

“Well,” Hank shrugs as the plate of sizzling bacon is laid out in front of him, “that’s a nice headspace to have, bein’ in violent crimes and all, but this guy seems like a real creep.”

Connor remembers Markus. Markus with a _K_. He was charming, if a bit imposing, standing in the dark like that, but in the light, his eyes were mismatched and his smile broad, his friend’s laugh genuine and whole. Connor can’t see him as a _creep_ ; maybe someone who’s not used to getting around people they like, but not a creep.

He still refused every time Markus asked.

His thoughts stray back to the recent homicide he’d just witnessed, poking at his scone with his fork. Jhene’s back behind the counter, now, her head tucked on top of her crossed arms, drowsy as she keeps an eye on them and the door. She’s a good kid, he concludes.

Connor doesn’t have the time to… be in love. Or the time fall into it, really. There’s just _this_ , the next kill, the next solve, the next clue to find. It’s what keeps him going. It’s what’s always constant.

He belligerently tries to forget his mother’s dismissive, dark eyes. Eyes that never loved him. He wasn’t hers, so why would she? So she left.

 _But this,_ he thinks secretly, a flash of red carnations sitting prettily on his table at home, _will never leave me._

**

Markus stares up at the pictures of Connor on his corkboard, tilting his head this way and that. He’s not as beautiful in the pictures as he is in real life, Markus

North is in stitches. She’s laughing, really, and it’s evident in the way she’s biting down on her lower lip, her reading glasses still perched on her nose. Josh is sitting on a couch to their left, long legs crossed primly.

North is laughing because, for the first time in the longest time, she’s _proud_.

“You didn’t kill him,” North reiterates what Markus told her a few minutes ago, “You’re just using him as a Rolodex?”

Markus lifts a shoulder and tilts his head in assent. She’s not wrong, and Connor did love it. He still hasn’t picked up on the nuances, but that’s alright. It’s only been a few hours. Markus’ bright boy will always understand. This is the first of the many he’ll give him, just to see that wicked little smile on his face that he hides.

Yes, Markus _knows_.

Connor’s so different from Si—

“You’re on the news,” Josh pipes up, turning up the volume of the television. The news anchor is a severe looking man with grey eyes, and he looks just like how Leo would look like, had Leo not been the twitchy man that sits scared in his dingy little apartment, hands free but always watched. It would seem like he’s got some purpose to Markus, after all.

They’re talking with a tall man, his beady eyes even darker in the night, blue and red shining off of his umber skin.

“As of now, there’s no determinant cause—”

“Oh, bullshit!” Josh says under his breath, “We all know what the _determinant cause_ is, you cowards,”

Markus smiles at his enthusiasm. Between the two of them, Josh and North, Josh was once the one who held back, who put a hand on Markus’ shoulder and asked him if he was really going to go through with… with whatever he put his mind into. North has softened, and he doesn’t blame her. She has a family now; a beautiful one, a growing one. All that he asks is that she doesn’t leave.

But now…

North is proud, in a subdued way, her face lax and smiling, but she doesn’t share the same passion in Josh’s face.

It’s alright. All things change.

The man—Captain Fowler—says that he’s got his best on the case, and Markus grips at the arms of his chair, perking up, waiting for the man to say Connor’s name. But he doesn’t. He goes through the proper protocols, asking for tips, keeping it all under wrap. This _is_ quite different than before.

He figures that Connor only deserves the best.

“You really outdid yourself with this one, Markus,” North says from her chair. She’s closed her clinic off today just to host this little viewing party of theirs. It’s reminiscent of an older time, back when he was younger, back when he loved someone else, someone undeserving.

North takes a short swig from her glass. “What’s next?”

Markus hums. He’s going after Connor, next. Intertwine himself in the man’s life, more than he already has.

He _loves_ Connor. He’ll do anything for him. Anything to make him happy. And then…

A thrill runs down his spine.

And then they’ll make a home, just for the two of them.

**

“Vermeer.”

Hank snorts awake from where he was half-dunking his own nose into his coffee, “Hn?”

“The murder. It’s _The Music Lesson_ , by Johannes Vermeer.” Connor stands up and sorts through the pictures, looking at wide shots and close ups alike. _Red Ice_ in their eyes… “Hank, did the blood work come in already?”

Hank shakes his head, tired from being awake for two whole days. When something gets under Connor’s skin and around his head, he doesn’t let it go.

 _Like an octopus with a shell,_ Hank always says, and Connor’s never been inclined to disagree. He does obsess over cases like these. Like the one from a few years back, the Killer Blue Eyes case, but that quickly ended three months after the second kill. He wasn’t the one assigned to that case; he wasn’t even in the state back then, but it caught his eye.

The killer seemed to obsess over men and women who had blue eyes. But other than that, it just seemed like… murder, through and through.

This, though? This is literally a work of art.

People are already dubbing the murder as the _Eye of the Beholder_ murder, what with the official statement being put out. Red Ice stuck where their eyes should be.

“Hank,” he calls again, “there was a vase, wasn’t there?”

Hank grunts out a yes.

“Did anyone check what was inside?”

Hank makes a defeated noise and turns his head so he can begin napping against his arms in earnest. “Not me,”

Connor berates himself for not being thorough enough. He dashes out of their shared office and down to the evidence room, tapping his foot as he impatiently waits his turn so he can open the goddamned room. He inputs Hank’s password—short and sweet, _fuckingpassword_ —and runs inside, gloved hands carefully going over the pieces they’ve collected, until he comes upon the vase.

It’s plain, white, and looks exactly like the one from the Vermeer painting. Well, not _exactly_. There’s red rubies jutting out the neck, ridged with multiple deep grooves, but still, smooth to the touch. Could this be the killer’s signature? No, they wouldn’t make something so obvious. They wouldn’t compromise themselves like that.

Murderers are only killing for themselves and the attention it brings them. It gives them some sort of pride that they otherwise can’t have elsewhere.

He tips it upside down. Nothing comes out.

Huh. So maybe the vase wasn’t anything special, after all. No fingerprints, no anything.

Connor lifts the vase up under his nose and sniffs.

The tangy smell of Red Ice doesn’t surprise him, but as he drags his nose upwards, towards the rubies, it gets stronger. Connor pulls the vase away, narrowing his eyes at the vase. He needs to get this checked out _now_.

He starts flipping off the lights, the vase tucked in his arms like a baby.

Who would take the time to actually fit a _vase_ with smoothened Red Ice? The red was so clear that Connor didn’t even notice that it was anything _but_ a precious gem. Whoever did this wanted to catch the DPD’s attention, and well, they did. Connor’s buzzing, his skin too tight with the need to see just _who_ did this, and _how_ they did it.

He and Hank collide as Connor walks out, the vase saved by how tightly Connor’s gripping it in his arms.

“Kid, what the fuck?” Hank shouts in surprise, looking at him and then the vase. He’s got a folder in his hands. Connor hugs the vase closer, feeling the grooves of it even through his layers of clothing. Something like possessiveness runs through him, and Connor wants to _laugh_.

He holds the vase aloft.

“Red Ice Rubies,” Is all he says.

Hank actually laughs, holding up the folder.

“They’re positive for OD’ing on Red Ice.”

And Connor joins him in laughter. He feels elated. He’s not close to cracking this, not at all, but he knows that _this_ , whoever did this, had a motive behind it. He presses his fingers against the carved Red Ice again, and stops.

It flares out, like a carnation.

Like the ones—

Like the ones from inside the victims’ eyes.

Connor blinks.

“You okay, Connor?”

Something warm curls at the pit of his stomach.

He blinks some more, before shaking his head. He’ll jot it down later. Right now, he needs to get this analysed again, because apparently, all of them are incompetent rookies that doesn’t care much for one of the most intriguing murders since the Black Dahlia.

God, he wants to just head home, cuddle Nines, and _sleep_.

Hank’s hand lands on top of his shoulder, and Connor lets out a small _oof_ at the weight of it, not quite balking, but close enough. He’s starting to feel the fatigue crawl up behind his knees.

“Maybe I should drive you home, huh?” Hank’s voice is far away. The adrenaline from finding a lead is starting to wear off, and Connor barely feels the vase being eased off his gloved hands and into someone else’s.

Connor shakes his head. “No, no,” He slaps himself a little to keep himself awake, “I can… I can take the subway.”

“You look like you’re about to tip over, angelface.”

He stiffens at the nickname, immediately awake, and Hank huffs out a sigh. He steps away from Connor, removing his hand off of the younger man’s shoulder. It’s not that—it’s not that Connor doesn’t want to acknowledge the fact that Hank… _likes_ him, it’s that they’re _colleagues_. That’s all Hank has ever been for him; a friend, yes, someone he implicitly and wholly trusts, but Connor cares too much for his job and what it entails to ever give Hank a chance.

It doesn’t help that all Connor’s ever going to be for Hank is his mid-life crisis.

Connor shoves the thoughts away and chooses to ignore and forget all of it. It’s better this way, he’s sure.

“I’m going to take home some of the files,” He mumbles, and Hank scratches at the back of his head as he nods.

The sun has risen by the time he finishes packing up and cleaning his desk, and Hank is nowhere to be found. Analysis will take at least six hours, so Connor walks outside, letting the sun hit his skin. It feels warm, and Connor shivers, to which he diffuses by stretching out, a small yawn leaving his mouth.

His stomach growls just as he finishes his stretch, and he blushes, thankful that no one is really out at this time of the morning. His phone goes off inside his pocket, and there can only be one person who’d call him at this time in the morning. The brand on his back begins to itch.

Oddly enough, he feels _good_ , the need to move great and all-encompassing. He looks at the subway, and then at the roads leading towards his house and the art supply store after the park.

Maybe he’ll drop by _Cook’s_ , too.

**

“So, you fold it this way…?”

Markus takes his own piece of squared paper and folds it into a diamond, showing it to the waitress who’d come to sit with him, recognising him from the other day. Somehow, he got roped into teaching her how to make an origami crane.

He watches a red bus drive by as Jhene preoccupies herself. Markus hums.

Jhene makes a little ‘ _ohh_..’ sound and follows his lead, her tongue sticking out in concentration. She’s already made one crooked looking crane by the time the doorbell rings, making them both look up. The rest of the patrons seem uninterested and bored with their lives.

See, unlike them, Markus would never be bored or uninterested with his life. He lets a grin paint his face as Connor spots him, seemingly surprised. After a beat, Connor’s face softens and he returns Markus’ smile, though he doesn’t sit in the booth with him. He drops into a booth in the corner, all but sagging into it.

He’s exhausted.

“Hey,” he taps at Jhene’s shoulder, “can you get him a scone and some coffee?”

The waitress looks up, follows where Markus is pointing, and grins. Her lips curl teasingly, obviously pleased that he’s making a move, so she nods, puts the crane into her apron pocket, and goes. When she comes back out, she’s carrying a tray filled with scones and a steaming pot of coffee, laying it out on Connor’s table with a kind smile.

Connor catches Jhene’s eye, eyebrows furrowing. She says something, and Connor smiles, unreadable, but intimate and soft enough to make Markus’ heart flutter.

He’s beautiful, even when he’s tired.

Soon enough, Markus finds himself sliding into the booth across Connor, who pours him a cup of joe with that smile still on his face.

He asks, “Does this count as a first date?”

Connor answers, scone trapped between his teeth, “If you kiss me at the end of it, yes.”

Markus bites his lips and watches Connor chase the bite of scone down with coffee before leaning in, wrapping his hand around the back of the man’s head, possessing him, and Connor tips his head up to meet Markus’ lips, soft and tasting of coffee.

That’s better.

Connor’s eyes are dark and shiny when they part. He’s panting a little bit, and his cheeks are flush. He’s beautiful, if a bit twitchy. Markus feels himself come apart at the seams just by looking at the one he loves, and all of a sudden, something warm floods him, something he’s never quite felt before.

He doesn’t know what it is, but he likes it.

It would seem that Connor likes it, too.

**

Connor is exhausted, but not tired enough, apparently. Markus sighs as he curls his fingers into the man’s hair, watching how Connor’s hair flicks and slowly rests into a loose curl against his skin.

Pink lips wrap around the head of Markus’ cock and slowly inches down, until Connor’s nose is pressed against his pelvis, buried in his pubic hair.

For a first date, this is moving faster than he’d imagined.

It’s not like he doesn’t like it. As a matter of fact, Markus finds it… beneficial.

“Yeah,” He breathes, utterly intoxicated with the way Connor sits so prettily on his knees on the dirty bathroom floor of _Cook’s,_ hands on Markus’ thighs, looking up at him with half lidded eyes. The sun’s long risen, North and Josh might be waiting for him at the studio by now, but he doesn’t care.

He’s got his favourite boy to take care of.

Markus has dreamed about this moment for a very long time—six months—but having Connor easily on his knees for Markus, sleepily but enthusiastically enveloping his cock between those pink lips sends a thrill through him. This isn’t what he’d imagined; he doesn’t know if it’s better, but it satiates the continuous hunger that gnaws at him, calming it down as if it was just a particularly rowdy cat.

“You’re so beautiful,”

Connor smiles, timid and shy around his member, and begins bobbing his head, eyes fluttering closed. Markus is not small, by any stretch of the imagination, but the smaller man practically engulfs him with an ease that only comes with experience, and Markus’ hand tightens around the locks of hair on the back of Connor’s head, making him whine from where he’s got a mouthful of cock.

His mouth is tight and warm around Markus, and it only gets better when Connor begins suck and humming in earnest, all but purring as Markus starts scratching at his scalp. _That_ makes Markus smile.

When Connor starts gagging, even for just a second, Markus’ hands are there, pressing against the back of his head, keeping him where he should be, shushing him, comforting him through it.

“Take it all in, baby,” He croons, and Connor relaxes, all but going lax around his cock, “Good boy. I’ll take care of you, don’t worry,”

The words are out of his mouth before he realises what they mean, but he can’t find it in himself to take it back. It’s not like he doesn’t mean it.

Connor is his and his alone.  

The man downright _purrs._

A giddy sort of happiness courses through Markus. “You like that, sweetheart?”

Connor hums and pulls himself off, smiling, before licking at the tip of Markus’ cock. As much as Markus wants to take this slow, they’re not exactly in a private place. Someone will want to use this bathroom sooner or later.

He cups at Connor’s cheek and grins when the man leans into his hand. “I’m gonna fuck your mouth,” he quietly declares, and Connor sleepily nods, letting his jaw fall open.

Markus didn’t expect Connor to be so… obedient. The Connor he knows and this Connor is so different, and it thrills Markus, to be able to peel away one part of Connor that he _didn’t know_. It’s surprising, to say the least.

It makes everything so much easier.

When he pushes in, Connor moans, hands still on the tops of Markus’ thighs, keeping them there even without Markus’ explicit instruction. He thrusts once, experimentally, testing out how far he can go. So when the second thrust comes, harsher, quicker, and far more selfish, and Connor only _takes it_ , he lets out a proud huff, before bracing his feet apart and fucking into Connor’s mouth in earnest.

God, it’s so fucking _good_.

Markus has fucked many people in his life. You didn’t actually think he’d stay _celibate,_  right? But this… Connor, on his knees, pink-cheeked and submissively eager, beats out everything he’s ever experienced.

He all but backs Connor into the other wall with the force of him fucking into the man’s mouth, but Connor holds, careful not to drag his teeth along Markus’ dick, but when he _does_ , a shiver runs up Markus’ spine.

It’s like Connor _knows_ , and it sends Markus reeling. It makes him want to find out just how much Connor _knows_.

His orgasm is sudden and a solid punch to his gut. Connor relaxes, peacefully swallowing down Markus’ come.

 _Perfect,_  Markus’ brain gasps, and his mind blanks out, after that. Connor’s mouth around him is the only thing tethering him to this moment.

Connor pulls off, eyes half-lidded and dopey, wiping up a trickle of come that’s escaped down his chin, smiling up at Markus. He looks grateful.

Bending down, Markus presses his lips against Connor’s, tasting himself, along with coffee and blueberries, Connor’s arms wrapping around his shoulders as he _accepts,_ and it’s…

 _Perfect_.

**

Connor wakes up with Nines lying over his body, the Border Collie’s chin propped up against his chest so he can stare at Connor.

He smiles. “Good morning,”

Nines yips, tail thumping against his leg. Connor reaches up to scratch behind his ear, making the dog all the more happier, though he keeps himself subdued, ever the prissy little bitch he is. Connor loves him nonetheless; if someone’s got to be a flamboyant queen, well, it might as well be his dog. He can’t exactly bring that kind of… lifestyle to the precinct.

Not that they’d reject him, no. People will just… stop trusting him. It’s how it is. _They can’t help that they’re bigots_ , Hank always says. Connor would disagree, but he doesn’t want to fight the Lieutenant, especially on things like that.

Connor husks, lifting himself up to his elbows, looking right at Nines’ eager blue eyes. “You want breakfast, boy?”

As if remembering something, Nines jumps up and bolts into the hallway, his claws skidding against Connor’s hardwood floors. Connor follows him with his gaze, before letting himself fall back into the warm sheets. God, it feels good to fall asleep on something that isn’t an office chair or a table. Or, in one instance, a library shelf.

Nines’ barks is the only thing that forces him to crawl out of bed, tugging his sleep shirt over the tops of his thighs. He doesn’t remember changing into anything last night, not really. His body feels a bit out of sorts. He doesn’t like this. The last time he woke up half naked and alone was—

Connor slaps his cheeks. No. _No_.

He perks up, suddenly, surprised that he doesn’t immediately pick up on the sound of something sizzling.

His whole being locks up and he grabs his holster, pulling out the gun and dashing towards the kitchen, gun aimed and finger carefully positioned over the safety.

“Hands in the fucking air—!”

Nines whines and barks.

Markus—Red carnation guy, Markus with a _K_ —has got his hands up, one of Connor’s spatulas still inside his fist.

What smells like _fried chicken_ wafts through the air, and it smells so _good_ that Connor halts in his steps. Well, he mostly stops because it’s _Markus_ , and Nines is at his feet, incessantly and shamelessly begging at the much taller man. Connor blushes when he realises he’s ran into a complete stranger in only his sleep shirt, threatening him with a gun.

Jesus _Christ_.

“Markus!” He yelps, diving for cover, which is behind a kitchen counter, ducking so his whole body isn’t seen. “Markus, hello, what the hell are you doing in my _house_?”

Markus smiles. He says, easy as can be, “I took you home.” He points at the sofa, “You can wear my coat if you’re feeling shy.”

Connor drags the article of clothing over to him, shrugging it on and wondering just how much bigger this Markus guy is compared to him, because it _sags_. Connor feels so much more smaller than he actually is.

Somehow, that makes him think he’s safe.

Markus returns to cooking, an Connor stands up, hugging the coat tighter around his body. The man makes an appreciative noise, and Connor—

Connor _likes_ it.

He feels wanted; he feels like—like—

“I’m sorry,” Connor blurts out before he can stop himself, “I don’t know what you think… we have, but I, I can’t. I don’t do relationships.”

Markus lifts one broad shoulder in a shrug. He looks like he’s at peace with what Connor said, but when he looks over his shoulder, his eyes are bright, and Connor finds himself mesmerised, swallowing audibly.

Markus, Connor’s Red Carnation guy, is beautiful.

“It’s okay,” He says, with a quiet sort of confidence that Connor immediately thinks is attractive. This Markus man is awakening in him things he didn’t even know he _liked_. “It’s not like I can’t wait.”

Connor’s breath hitches.

He’s… _waiting_?

“You’re not… leaving?”

 _You’re giving me a choice_?

The man’s eyes are blinding, as is his smile. Connor feels a peace he’s never felt before, because it’s like he’s coming home, finding the one he needed all along. Like—like how he feels, whenever he comes back to the precinct, when he picks up a new case file.

Complete, like he was fulfilling his purpose.

Nines yips and Connor’s heart warms when Markus tosses a piece of fried chicken high in the air, to which Nines snarls at, but catches effortlessly.

“I was looking forward to lunch, actually.”

**

Leo is shivering. He’s not wearing anything, and there’s a reason for that. The cold is settling in, and it’s especially cold in his own basement, where he keeps tons and tons of Red Ice and other freebase cocaine.

Markus’ lip turns up into a sneer. He’s wearing jeans and a turtleneck, his feet decidedly bare.

Somehow, Leo feels like his own brother is going to kill him. It would be better than _this_ , at least. Fucking torture. Who knew Carl Manfred was raising a complete fucking psychopath?

“What are you thinking about, Leo?” Markus asks casually, sitting primly on the chair across from him. He’s got a pair of pliers in one hand, and a huge silver tack in the other. Leo’s toenails are already nonexistent, except for one that has a tack lodged underneath one nail.  He’s sure that if he speaks out of turn ever again, Markus is going to pop out his goddamned knee.

So he doesn’t speak.

“No?” Markus tilts his head. “It’s not enough,” he says, bland and monotonous. He rubs a hand over the stubble he’s neglected to shave. Leo guesses something’s gone absolutely fucking tits up in his life, but he can't exactly feel sympathy. His brother is torturing him for information. “Of course it’s not enough.”

He tugs Leo up to stand on his feet, making him whimper when the little shards of glass already inside his feet digs _deeper_ and _deeper_ still.

“A name,” Markus demands, voice soft but authoritarian. He pauses, as if to think something over. Leo’s only ever seen that thoughtful look on his face whenever their father’s birthday comes around. “Six names.”

Leo doesn’t speak. For the first time, he’s _afraid_ to speak. He doesn’t know what Markus’ll do to him, but he’s got an idea. The pliers between his fingers are a goddamned fucking clue if he’s ever seen one.

His brother snaps his fingers in front of Leo’s face, impatient. “Leo.”

He can’t tell him. If Leo rats them out even more, fuck even thinking about escaping from this goddamned place. Williams is going to flay him where he fucking stood.

Lesser of two evils, he thinks. Markus is the lesser of the two evils.

But he doesn’t know his brother much anymore, does he?

Markus sighs and walks behind him, and Leo gasps when his arms are pulled taut behind him and bound together, and not before long, he’s being hoisted _upwards_ , the pressure too great on the sockets of his shoulders. Markus sits back down on the chair and brings out a book. _ATHENA_ , it said. Big, brown eyes and thin lips stare at Leo as he struggles to keep the pressure off his torso, but he can’t _._

A whole half hour passes before his shoulders pop out of their sockets. Leo is sobbing, blubbering, calling for their father, and worst of all, he’s _snitching._

“...Carlos Ortiz.” Markus repeats the names. He uncrosses his legs, pulling out his phone. He taps a few buttons, and Leo begins screaming, begging for dear life, for anyone, _anyone_ , to hear. He pulls out a ragged, blood stained piece of paper. Leo remembers that.

He _remembers that_.

Leo chokes on his own spit. He can’t breathe. He can’t _breathe_. He’s already fucked in all the ways that matters, it seems. Markus has always been a smart motherfucker.

Markus puts a hand over the receiver and glares, before continuing his call.

“Kait Weiss, Anne Kaplan, Nadine Johnson…” He looks at the piece of paper, and then grins at Leo, happy that his brother isn’t lying, after all. “Lee Adler, Ahmet Mansell, and… Carlos Ortiz. I need everything on them.”

Leo shivers when his baby brother smiles. “I’ll see you soon, North. Say hi to the kids for me, will you?”

**

“Beatrice Orsal and Jesse Kirkland. Both positive for overdosing on Red Ice, and both, apparently, well known pushers of it.”

Hank removes the cigarette from his mouth and shakes his head, “Quite high in the druggie hierarchy, too.”

Connor is stumped. They didn’t even make headway with the current Red Ice case they have, and yet, here is his murderer, doing the work for him.

He’s impressed.

He’s not just impressed, he’s at _awe._

Connor’s never quite heard of a prosaic warning than this. Vermeer, Red Ice, and murder, all into one clean package, ready for him to pick apart and understand. Even Hank is impressed, judging by the look on his face. It’s their sixth day on this case, and while they are making… considerable headway, it doesn’t really make complete sense.

Did they have a vigilante on their hands, or just a connoisseur of murders?

Tina Chen—Reed’s current partner—walks up to them, her hair in a disarray, eyes wide and cheeks gaunt. Reed’s been working her to the bone, hasn’t he? Connor feels half bad for her; but he hasn’t forgotten that coffee incident a few months back.

“There’s been a new murder,” She rushes out, and Connor pushes himself off of the wall, telling Hank to ditch the cigarette and get the car ready.

**

The murder is in a bus, and just by looking at it, Connor knows it’s Frida Kahlo’s _El Autobus_. His heart thunders. Six bodies, all sat on one side of the bus, and at the heart of it all, is Carlos Ortiz, eyes missing, holding what seems to be a bag filled with more Red Ice Carnations.

All their eyes are scooped out, much like the first victims, replaced with beautifully carved carnations. Connor takes one into his gloved hands and looks at it, watching it glint.

He doesn’t tell anyone, but with the Red Ice sandalled into red carnations, he feels as if these murders are for him.

No one’s ever done anything for him before.

**

Markus runs his fingers up the plains of Connor’s stomach, hands that he’s just cleaned of blood. When he said he’d wait for Connor, he didn’t actually expect to continuously fall into bed with him.

But if that’s what Connor wants, then it’s what Connor gets. He smells like his normal roses and gunpowder, but he’s got _cigarette ashes_ on him, and hat sends Markus into some kind of rage, something he’s never let himself feel before, not even with Si—

“Markus,” Connor, beautiful Connor, Connor who spent his whole day cooped up in that goddamn precinct, talking about the murders Markus _gifted_ him, his voice pitched in perverse happiness, hidden behind the guise of a particularly curious and concerned detective, but Markus knows better.

He knows that when Connor got home, before he called Markus, he looked at a picture of the murder for a good few minutes, eyes wide and searching, like a kid in a candy store, and Markus loves him.

No one has ever took his gifts for what they are:

_Gifts._

Tokens of passion, of love. But Connor—?

Connor, who is smiling down at him as he grinds his hips against Markus’, the hard lines of their members meeting, making him groan at the sensation.

 _What his Connor needs_ , Markus thinks hysterically, half-mad as Connor kisses him, _is for someone to love him_.

When’d he get so lucky, huh?

Just a few months ago—a week ago, really—he was listening to Connor through a phone, watching him from afar, knowing everything there could be about him, counting his beauty marks when he sleeps—

“ _Markus_ ,” Connor groans, body undulating. He’s insatiable.

Markus hums and runs his hands down until it rested just above the last knob of Connor’s spine, before he’s dipping in, rubbing his fingertip against Connor’s entrance. His other hand wraps around Connor’s cock and squeezes.

He’d want nothing more than to throw Connor down onto the ground and just shove his dick into him, consequences be damned, but Connor isn’t _his_ yet.

He will be, and this, Markus knows.

He knows just about everything about Connor.

Like the way he’ll moan when—

Connor sits down on the finger teasing at his entrance, fucking into Markus’ fist simultaneously, a deep rumble coming from his stomach and ending up into a beautiful moan, his lips pressed against the crook of Markus’ neck, nipping, and Markus knows he’s doing it mindlessly.

“Lay down, baby,” Markus commands, soft as can be, and Connor looks at him, crazed in arousal, but Markus knows what he needs, better than he does.

Connor follows, slipping off of Markus’ lap and right onto the smooth wood of the coffee table, pulling his legs up so his knees were raised high, presenting himself to Markus.

 _Beautiful_ , Markus thinks.

“Markus,” Connor whines, pleads, really, hands coming down to wrap around his prick, before slowly pumping up and down. Markus watches him for a little bit. Absolutely fucking gorgeous.

He stops Connor’s hand with his own, grabbing it by the wrist before pressing it against Connor’s stomach with an unsaid command. Connor bites his lip and follows, awaiting Markus’ next instruction.

Markus shuffles forward, looking at how Connor’s cock curved ever so slightly to the left, pale and pink, but angry in its arousal. He takes half of it down in one go, and Connor yelps, hands clawing against the wooden coffee table.

On his knees, like this, with Connor spread out before him voluntarily, Markus feels… _great._  Strong, even.

He hums around Connor’s prick, before pulling off enough to drag his teeth along the head, licking at the slit, tasting the slightly acrid taste of Connor’s precome; _that_ makes Connor keen, hands scrambling for purchase on Markus’ head.

“ _Please_ ,”

Markus smiles, completely pulling away to wrap his hand around Connor, “C’mon, baby, tell me. What do you want?”

He doesn’t need Connor to tell him, but it’ll sound sweet coming from Connor’s lips, nonetheless.

Connor’s eyes immediately lock onto his, bright and hungry. He licks his lips, as if he were thinking. Calculating what to say next, to get the perfect outcome. Watching Markus’ face, mapping out each and every freckle.

Markus tightens his hold around Connor’s cock.

His lover’s back bows, “I _need—”_

It’s easy to know what he’ll say next, but it’s like a song as Connor whimpers, begs:

“— _you_.”

“Good,” Markus praises, and Connor flushes a dusky red, averting his gaze away from him. Markus’ frown is quick and hidden by how he takes Connor back into his mouth.

**

Connor’s head is pillowed on his chest, his eyes closed as he hums a little song.

Markus laughs. He knows that one.

“My eyes adored you…” He sings, quietly, and Connor perks up at that, brown eyes peeking under a thick curtain of dark eyelashes. Connor’s always so beautiful after his second orgasm. “My, uh,” Markus coughs, “My dad used to sing it a lot.”

The smaller man tucks his head underneath Markus’ chin, “Mine did, too.” And begins humming again.

Markus closes his eyes and begins running his fingers up and down Connor’s spine, making it bow ever so slightly underneath his touch. Connor’s back is sensitive—much like most parts of him, but especially his back. He has scars running up and down his back, and Markus thinks he appreciates that Markus doesn’t ask after them.

He figures that’s something he shouldn’t know.

But there, at the base of his spine, above where the curve of his ass begins, is the name _Elijah_. Markus runs his fingers over it absentmindedly.

Interesting.

Connor suddenly sits up.

“Get out,” he whispers, “Get out of my house.”

Markus, of course, follows.

**

It’s a pity that Markus can’t cut off Leo’s tongue.

It really is.

But he can cut off his fingers.

“It’s not enough,” He says to his brother, carefully hacking off Leo’s ring finger, the only family he has in this world, “Of course it’s not enough.”

**

Markus still watches Connor whenever they’re not together. He dances, when he’s alone, and he watches over Lieutenant Anderson, when the man sleeps. But what makes Markus happy, what keeps him watching, is the grim giddiness in his eyes whenever someone tells him that there’s been an update on the murders.

Connor’s still not Markus’, though, and it’s starting to piss him off. Patience is key, he knows this, but Connor is _his_.

So he’ll continue to do what he needs to do.

Markus pats Nines’ head and curls his hand around one dark, floppy ear, smiling down at the dog, who has become loyal to him. From the start, Nines has been loyal to him.

“What do you think, boy?” He asks, and the Border Collie growls, before letting out differently pitched yips. Markus nods.

Connor sleeps on the bed, shivering because of the breeze coming from his open window. He hasn’t called Markus back to his home in three days, and it’s beginning to chafe. He misses Connor.

Nines whines, nails clicking against the floor, leaning in near to nose at Connor’s hand. His icy blue eyes turn to watch Markus.

“You’re right,” He replies. “There’s no time like the present.”

**

It’s surprising that it’s taken Connor this long to catch up after Markus. See, Connor doesn’t actually tell him much. They just fall into bed, sometimes, Connor watches him sleep, and then he kicks him out when morning comes.

Not after breakfast, of course.

Todd Williams was a hard man to kill. He had to call in North, had to take her away from her family. He hated it. But it’s done, and Todd Williams is tugged up, eyes scooped out, curled over a swaddled bundle of Red Ice. Father and child.

He steps back and admires his work, before sitting down on the chair he’s set up, removing his gloves to let it fall by his feet. This is it; the titular moment wherein the man ensnares his fair beauty. Markus would have let this go on for months, maybe years, but he knows the time is now. He knows Connor will understand, that _this_ , all of this—

Is for him.

Markus knows Connor will come alone. He’s far too curious and somewhat prideful to ever let anyone catch the infamous _Eye of the Beholder_ killer. It’s why Markus loves him.

All there is to do now is… to wait.

**

Connor watches him with dark eyes, and Markus can’t see him in the dark, not really, but he knows that Connor has his gun trained on him, ready to shoot at a moment’s notice. He’s come alone, and he’s deathly quiet. Nothing but the chirping of cicadas thrum around them, and the occasional rumble of a car. There’s no one here but them, and Todd Williams’ body.

When Connor finally steps out of the darkness, his lips are pulled into a thin line, a white slash across his severe face, and Markus crosses his legs, hands folded together on top of his stomach. He didn’t have to wait long; Connor came here an hour after the tip was anonymously sent in by Josh.

The man’s head cocks to the side, curious, but not at all surprised. Markus shouldn’t be shocked; Connor is a smart man. His equal. Markus should have known that Connor would have an inkling that the cuckoo is in his nest, ready to leave its trace, never to be seen again.

But Markus has no plans to leave Connor any time soon. If Connor rejects him now, then Markus will have to… resort to more violent means. This, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if Connor will shoot him between the eyes or let him rot inside a jail cell, he doesn’t know what Connor will do.

But he _will_ understand.

“Todd Williams,” Connor cocks the gun towards the body. “ _Madonna del Granduca_ , by Raphael.”

Markus sighs. “Brilliant.”

“This one is religious.”

He nods, smiling. It is religious, isn’t it? A beautiful offering for one Markus wants to worship. His last offering, should things not go according to plan. But Markus is willing to die; he doesn’t know if he’d like to live in a world where Connor Kamski does not love him back.

“Do you like it?”

The gun cocks again. Markus doesn’t flinch, but he knows it’s trained on him. Right between his eyes, maybe.

A laugh, and then:

“I do.”

Markus’ eyes fly open. Connor presses the nuzzle of his gun to the side of Todd Williams’ head, moving it to and fro, making the man’s head loll with the motion of his gun. He looks bored, and then he looks at the swaddled chunks of Red Ice, letting out a breathy laugh.

His brown eyes are wild when he looks at Markus.

“Red carnations are my favourite.”

Markus doesn’t dare move from his seat, holding his breath just in case Connor changes his mind. But no, Connor lopes towards him, head tilted curiously, his gun hanging off of his fingers. He looks… relaxed, and Markus holds his breath, waiting for his next move.

His breath comes out in a sigh when a warm weight drapes over his lap, and Connor’s eyes look down into his, curious as ever. Markus feels a thrill run up his spine.

Connor’s eyes are brown, speckled with gold. But if you cared to look straight into them, nearing the pupils are little flecks of red, earthy, and reminiscent of the red that decorated the gloves at Markus’ feet.

He smiles, his cheeks dimpling, the crows feet beside his eyes prominent.

Markus asks, “It’s time to go home, don’t you think?”

Markus grips him by his waist and stands, swallowing Connor’s laughter with a kiss, and he feels _elated_ , thankful, even, giddy with a happiness he’s never known before as Connor wraps his legs around his waist.

Or, at least, that’s what would have happened if Connor hadn’t slipped out of his lap, blinked, and shot him right in the foot. Connor sneers, and it looks out of place on his angelic face. Markus is confused.

This isn’t—this isn’t how this is supposed to go. Connor would have—he should have _accepted_ all of this, and then, he and Markus would live happily ever after. Connor should have been happy that Markus went through all this for _him_ , the ungrateful fucking _bitch—_

Connor raises an eyebrow. “I suggest you call your little murderer friends,” he says, with no remorse whatsoever in his eyes, but there must be, deep down, because he’s not calling the cops on Markus.

He chances to look away at Connor and down at his foot. The bullet’s gone through, and Markus can’t quite feel the pain. Oh, pain, he feels that when he looks back up into Connor’s eyes, and it’s not golden anymore. It’s swallowed up by black, and his face isn’t angelic, it’s ugly and sneering.

His face is so dark. Markus decides he doesn’t want to look at it anymore, but there’s something so _entrancing_ in Connor’s face, the way the shadows changes the way he looks, makes him more severe, ugly. It’s like Markus doesn’t know this man in front of him.

Connor tuts, “Sloppy, Markus.” He says condescendingly, walking back over to Todd Williams. His lips twist, and he scoffs. He looks over his shoulder and at Markus, before walking away.

Markus audibly swallows, feeling the pain in his foot worsen. A sound of a car door slamming is the only thing Connor leaves in his wake.

What did he do _wrong_?

Markus scratches at his head.

What went _wrong_?

He scratches again.

What didn’t he _know_?

**

North is seething. Josh is, as well, but he’s more reserved, his eyes unseeing at the stare off into the distance. There was a bullet left inside after all, and it sits on the table between the three of them. It’s like the old days, when North would scream and yell, telling him how stupid he was, her ring finger bare, and Josh would sit, looking away, thinking.

Thinking.

“We should have known,” North says through her teeth. She’s angry beyond belief, and it’s not necessarily at him, but rather, at the people he chooses to love. Markus wants to contradict her; you don’t choose who you love. They just walk by one day, and you just… love them. You want to know everything about them, how they smile when they’re talking about something they love, how they breathe when they’re asleep, dreaming about something they’ll forget once they wake up.

Connor looked beautiful, talking about what he loves. His breathing is staggered, when he sleeps, because he has nightmares.

Markus loved him.

And now, he’s scared of him.

Markus can still feel the way Connor’s waist felt under his hands. Solid, masculine. Not soft and lean. His dark eyes, looking _down_ at Markus, a wicked smirk on his face. It was like looking into a wolf’s eyes, but Connor had felt right in his arms, heavy and real, dangerous, even.

He made the mistake of thinking Connor’s easy submission to him was a telling sign of his compliance and continued submission. At least Connor implied that he’ll let Markus live, for now. He’s got to be careful, but he’s not running away. He’s not going anywhere.

It’s not like they can just kill Connor and be done with it, just because they’ve been smoked out by the one person they thought would understand _this_ with grace that no one but them ever did before.

Markus lets himself think of blond hair, blue eyes, and the pairs of blue eyes after it. The way those blue eyes glazed over with fear and tears, and Markus understood, then, that someone like _that_ man would never see the way he sees things. Would never love him for him. So Markus let him go; he had loved him enough to let him live, despite the sheer disgust and horror in those blue eyes.

God, but Connor—

Connor _understood_.

He saw beauty in his work, but then… then he turned Markus away. Shot him in the foot and then let him go. Much like Markus did, with _him_. But Connor doesn’t love him; never did, it seems.

“I really thought he’d be the one,” North laughs as she leans back into her chair, throwing her hands over her eyes. Markus looks at the bullet in between the three of them. Three’s such an… _odd_ number. He’s always liked evenness, himself. Four is a beautiful number.

Josh shrugs. “There’s always next time.”

“All that hard work, though,” North whinges. And she’s got a right to whine, she did, after all, do most of the dirty work, alongside Josh.

Markus just looks outside the window.

She’s right. All that hard work, gone. Spent on an ungrateful bitch.

But goddamn, if Connor hadn’t looked beautiful, aiming that gun right at Markus, poised and graceful as ever. He’ll always be the most beautiful muse he’ll have. It’s a pity.

It’s raining outside.

Markus scratches at his head.

**

Despite all of that, Markus can’t stop listening to Connor. It’s not like he’s trying to keep tabs on him, whether or not he’ll keep his little penchant for murdering people, but… he still… he still _loves_ him.

Markus finds that he can’t function without _this_ , without _him_.

His heart aches, and his body feels sluggish, like a puppet without a marionette. He doesn’t have a purpose now that Connor’s cast him aside like yesterday’s newspaper.

Markus rolls over to his side and curls over the phone, listening to Connor drone on and on about Markus’ latest murder, his voice careful, calculated, and dare he say it, _bored_. If Markus wasn’t hurt by Connor rejecting him, then he’s definitely hurt now. He can’t sleep, he can’t eat—not that he was eating, to begin with. Breakfasts just doesn’t seem appealing when he’s not spending it with Connor.

If North saw him, she’d probably say that he’s… pathetic. And maybe he is; but he doesn’t care. The only woman North loves loves her back, and she’s got a family to compensate for all the hurt that life’s thrown her. He’ll never admit it to her face, but he’s _jealous_. She’s always had a better life than him, or rather, she’s made a life that everyone would be envious of.

It’s why she hides her family from him.

Markus wants a life like hers, and he’s never seen a future for himself before he met Connor.

Connor’s voice reverberates through the air, and it’s colder. It’s calculating and detached. Markus presses his forehead against the phone and sighs.

What can he do to get Connor _back_?

**

Connor knows it’s Markus when he answers the phone and no one is on the other line. A chill runs down his spine when he hears nothing, but it slowly turns warm when he realises it’s Markus.

It’s a little pathetic.

He puts down the phone and stares at it, at the numbers that pass by. _00:13, 00:14, 00:15…_

His mouth opens, just to ask Markus something, anything. Wants to ask him _why_ , why him, and why all of this? Connor still can’t get the dead people out of his head. They look at him now, and they blame him. They blame him for being so—so— _him_ that Markus was driven to kill for him.

Connor closes his eyes and hugs himself, hands tight around his biceps, nails digging in until there were crescents on his pale skin. It’s not like he meant for this to happen, but they deserved it, didn’t they? They were horrid drug dealers who beat women and children, exploited many, killed—but how does that make what Markus did justified? Why did he let Markus _go_?

There’s one answer to that and even Connor doesn’t have the guts to say it, let alone think it.

Markus’ breath hitches. He knows Connor is listening, too.

Connor picks up the phone and disconnects the call.

He begins to pour himself into work. He managed to make Fowler pass along the _Eye of the Beholder_ cases along to Reed, not because Connor thinks Reed would do better work than him—on the contrary, Reed would do a much more shittier job than him by _leagues_. He just can’t deal with all the knowledge, the truths he has just looking right at him whenever he steps back into those crime scenes. They’re blaming him, he knows.

Hank’s worried. But then again, when _isn’t_ he worried?

Though now, he’s becoming increasingly suffocating, and Connor appreciates it. He does. But every time Hank comes near him with those blue eyes and easy nicknames, he just feels wrong. He feels as if he shouldn’t, because something might be watching. So he stops taking up Hank when he offers to drop him home. He stops.

He stops.

Wake up, feed Nines, take him on a run, go to work, come home, feed Nines, go on a walk, sleep.

His life has been monotonous ever since he shot Markus in the foot and left him there with Todd Williams’ rotting corpse. Sometimes, if he sleeps, he still imagines that moment. Markus looking up at him with those pretty, mismatched eyes, like a puppy waiting to be pet, and Connor would have smiled back, because Markus—

Connor looks up at the ceiling and ignores the droning of his colleagues. None of them give a shit that he has huge, dark bags under his eyes. None of them even come near him. They just stare at him because they know something’s wrong, but they don’t care. None of them did before, so why start now? It’s not like he’s harbouring the identity of the murderer who took down half the hierarchy of one of the most prolific drug traffickers in their part of the country.

Someone left him tea the other day, in his house. It was in the pantry, along with the other teas. Valerian root; they say it’s good to induce sleep. Connor’s not a fan of chamomile, so he picked it up and steeped himself some tea.

It tasted… good.

Connor slept well, that night.

In the morning, he threw it out.

**

He’s… groggy, to say the least. Coffee usually is his combatant for that, but he doesn’t want to come anywhere near the break room right now. Reed’s on his ass about the case. It’s not like Connor wanted to give it to him. But he’s got to protect—

Connor stops and squeezes his eyes shut.

He needs coffee.

Stumbling upright, he grabs his wallet and speedruns for the door, ignoring Hank’s worried looks or Reed’s smug face. If he wants to brand himself as king of the coffee machine, then by all means, he might as well. That place is choking Connor. The board across the room that’s decorated with red pins, pictures of the bus, the houses, the _paintings_ , the people—

He manages to buy coffee without any fuss, at least. That’s one thing that’s gone right this day. He buys Hank a doughnut, too, for walking out on him like that. Just a regular glaze; it’s his favourite. He likes eating it in bulk, too, but Connor won’t help him kill himself via doughnuts. Outside the Dunkin Donut’s is a wide road that is seemingly deserted; it’s nearing maybe three in the morning, and the violent crimes unit collectively pulled all nighters.

Connor’s here because they need him to be here.

After a minute of walking, he trips and almost falls over something—

A growl interrupts his thought and the next thing Connor knows, someone is shoving him against the wall, the man’s breath coming out in short, hot bursts, something _completely_ putrid, and Connor drops everything, his chest constricting as he’s held against the wall. He’s too tired.

He’s too fucking _tired_.  

The man’s breath is still disgusting and wet, but he’s not moving.

His head’s turned to the side, and the next thing Connor knows, he’s dropping him down on his feet, before scurrying away. Connor sits there, not at all like the prolific detective that everyone knows him to be, but just as Connor, Connor _no last name_ , who has an ugly secret, whose family hates him, whose own father who _debased_ him, who has nothing and no one except for a dog—

 _Nines_.

He forgot to feed Nines.

He’s quick as he runs back to the precinct. He can’t possibly call up his neighbour and ask _her_ to feed his dog, no. That’d be. That’d be imposing on her. He can’t do that. Hank’s mouth is already open to question him and the weird dirt stains on his button up, but Connor needs to come home. He hasn’t fed Nines since— _god_ , since last night. He didn’t come home today. How could he forget?

When he gets home, coatless and shivering from the cold, Nines yips, his bright blue eyes looking up at Connor. He jumps up onto him as Connor falls onto his knees, hugging Nines close as the dog’s tail wags incessantly, whining and barking softly by his ear.

He doesn’t seem hungry. Usually, when Connor’s a few minutes late to feeding him, he gets bitchy, nips and scratches at him, but no, this Nines is a satisfied and content Nines.

Connor presses his forehead against his dog’s and huffs.

Nines growls, licking at his cheek.

He didn’t even notice he was crying.

Connor wouldn’t know what to do if he lost Nines.

“Someone feed you, boy?” He asks, and Nines, sure enough, barks happily.

A shiver runs up Connor’s spine.

**

The calls keep coming.

Shorter and shorter. Connor’s beginning to feel restless. He doesn’t want it to end, these calls. Markus’ breathing, slow and steady, keeps him awake, keeps him from imagining the red carnations made of crystallised cocaine, doused in blood and covered in maggots.

It’s funny, how that works.

Fowler’s got him and Hank on something more mundane. Just a random… woman, man, _whatever_ , complaining about her neighbour being… being noisy or whatever. It’s not their problem, it’s the landlord’s, but Fowler took pity on him, it seems. Maybe Hank told him how the murders weighed on Connor.

It did, not just in the way they thought.

Hank taps his shoulder and walks off, out of the precinct. He obviously expects Connor to follow him. And of course, Connor will. It’s good, that Hank’s… making all of this easier on him. He shoves his arms into a coat, steadfastly ignoring the fact that everyone’s watching him.

He walks out after Hank, muttering his ‘excuse me’ at every person he manages to bump into, making Gavin Reed cuss at him, and Connor looks up, already murmuring his apology.

“Jesus, Bambi, watch it,” He huffs, and behind him, a man with a shock of orange hair nervously shuffles away, eyes carefully watching him. Even the civilians are looking at him weird. Connor retreats into himself and bows his head back down.

It’s like everyone _knows_.

**

The old woman—Josie, she said her name is—is a paranoid woman with a penchant for calling the authorities, it seems.

She harrumphs as they walk up her neighbour’s porch, crossing her arms over her chest. Connor’s already tired of her. Her eyes are wild, and she’s twitchy like a live wire or a chihuahua on tequila. Connor can’t help but stare at her. She’s got all the signs of a drug addict, but then, they’re not here to bust her ass for snorting medicinal cocaine or whatever the hell she’s taking. They’re here to check out the noise complaint she’s been calling the police about.

He’d be offended if he weren’t the reason why they’re taking this call.

Hank knocks thrice on the door.

“Mr. Towne?” Hank gruffly announces, “DPD.”

Josie huffs. “He’s been makin’ a racket since a few weeks back! Screamin’ like somebody cut his fuckin’ dick off!” She complains, her accent—she seems to be a Boston native—thickening as she continues. Connor tries to calm her down, or at least entertain her until she quits bitching, but she doesn’t want to, it seems. Her eyes are wide and alert, and she’s pointing at the door like it’s personally offended her. “I’ll cut his fucking tongue out, I swear!”

Connor raises his hands to placate her, “Now, ma’am—”

Hank suddenly calls his name, and Connor’s eyes snap towards him. The man raises his nose up into the air. “Do you smell that…?”

He pauses and so does Connor. Old woman Josie is still cussing up a storm, stomping all around the muddy porch. Connor looks at the door and pulls out his gun at the same time Hank does. They instinctively get into position, with Connor at Hank’s back, and Hank taking point.

When Hank kicks in the door, the smell of _rotting_ assaults Connor’s nose, and he cringes, but the grip on his gun doesn’t waiver, not even when Hank chokes out his vomit at the sight before them.

Connor’s stomach churns.

It churns, and churns, and churns.

A hand comes up to cover his own mouth, and an almost hysterical giggle makes it through the cages of his teeth, but he shoves two of his fingers into his mouth, biting down on it until it hurts. Blue eyes stare down at him.

He shakes, turns tail, and _runs_.

**

“Why him?” Connor demands, “Why _him_?”

Markus is sitting on his bed, looking out the window. Nines’ head is pillowed on his thigh, blissfully asleep. Connor doesn’t doubt that he still smells like the stench of the crime scene, and his phone is dumped somewhere, surely flooded with calls from Hank and his other colleagues.

The man lifts one freckled shoulder in a lazy shrug. He’s surely made himself at home, looking like he always does before Connor kicks him out of the house, shirtless and impossibly soft. The night sky is clear, and the stars are out. Connor’s always liked the sky; back at his father’s house, he never did quite get out much. He didn’t see the night skies much.

“Whenever you dream,” He begins, softly, fingers still scratching on the back of Nines’ ear, “You say his name.”

“It’s not—you didn’t have to—” Connor chokes on his words. His _father_. Markus killed his  _father_ —

Markus shakes his head. “I didn’t _have_ to do anything,” He concurs, “But I wanted to. For you. Because I love you, Connor.”

He laughs at that, one shaky hand hovering over the gun strapped by his waist, underneath his damp coat. “You’re fucking crazy,”

Mismatched eyes meet his, and they’re mirthful, full of _love_ and affection, even when he knows that Connor can shoot him right between the eyes. He’s not scared, and he’s not scaring Connor. He’s just… calm. “But you love it, don’t you?”

Connor bites down on his lip, shaking from something that isn’t fear. “Who gave you the _right—_?”

 _To curl your killer’s fingers into my mind and drag out the most horrid memories inside me_? Goes unasked. “Who,” he chokes on the question, “Who do you think you fucking are?” He stutters, shaky with rage, and Markus’ eyes soften even more. He shushes Nines when the dog begins to shake himself awake.

Markus looks back out the window. “I’m the man who knows who you are, Connor,” he declares, “I know who you are, and I still love you.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles out of Connor’s chest.

He still remembers what he saw. His father, his _Elijah_ , with his maw pulled open like a snake unhinging its jaw, eyes still bright and his lids peeled off, revealing bloodshot icy blue eyes, his body oddly preserved and untarnished. But in his mouth was someone’s head, a few tendrils of muscle making it cling onto the naked body that lay limp on top of Elijah’s body.

His father didn’t look so powerful, then. He looked defeated. He didn’t look like the man who— _who_ —

A thud snaps Connor out of his self-imposed prison. Markus is kneeling in front of him, his hands cupping Connor’s cheeks.

“You know what’s the best part about all of this, baby?”

Connor didn’t know his lips were stretched into a grin, and that Markus was grinning back at him, too.

He shakes his head and Markus continues.

“He’s _alive_.”

After that, it’s somewhat of a blur. Connor pushes Markus onto his back, straddling him until he’s looming over the man’s prone form. Nines startles awake, bounding out of the bedroom, leaving Connor and Markus alone. The man with the mismatched eyes look up at him, and Connor feels raw, feels pulled apart, but with every moment that passes that Markus’ eyes doesn’t stray from him, he feels like he’s being sewn back together again.

It’s a heady feeling.

Connor wraps his hand around Markus’ neck, and asks, carefully, quietly, “Just how much will you do for me, Markus?”

The man smiles, beautiful, pliant, _strong_ , underneath his hand.

“I’d give you my last name,”

Something flutters at the base of his stomach. Connor smiles and dives down, capturing Markus’ lips into a desperate kiss. He wonders if Markus can smell the stench of what he’s done on the collar of Connor’s shirt when he laps at the skin there, his hands settling on the divots of Connor’s hips, pressing his ass down onto the hot, hard line of his cock.

Connor shivers, his hand tightening around Markus’ neck.

“Tell me,” He breathes, and suddenly, he’s looking up at Markus’ eyes, the man having flipped them around. His fingers never leave their grip around Markus’ neck. “What else will you do for me?”

Markus chuckles and rips Connor’s button up off, the buttons popping off and hitting the floors with little _clack, clack, clack_ sounds.

“Whatever you want, baby,” He whispers against Connor’s collarbone, pressing reverent kisses there. “Whatever you want.”

Connor grapples him by the front of the head, pushing his head back until Markus is looking back down on him again, and he searches. Searches for a lie that isn’t there. There’s never been a lie in Markus’ pretty blue and green eyes.

“Then fuck me,” He commands, “Make it hurt.”

The man stills. Connor’s hand moves from his head and back around Markus’ neck, squeezing. Threatening. He can still kill Markus if he wanted to. Claim that he was the man’s next victim and he just—

“ _Yes_ , anything for you, sweetheart, I’ll make it good, I _promise_ —”

Connor smiles and tightens his hold around Markus’ neck, effectively shutting the man off. Markus doesn’t move. The heat coming off of his body is warm and welcome, more than welcome, really. He wraps his legs around his lover’s waist and drags his nose along Markus’ cheek, feeling the beginnings of a beard there.

He sniffs, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he can smell the blood still hanging off of Markus’ body. God, the thought of it alone makes him hard.

Finally, Markus pulls Connor’s legs off his waist and situates Connor on his hands and knees, hysterically rutting against him like a bitch in heat. Connor only laughs, but his laughter is cut off when Markus rips his jeans at the seams, revealing his boxer briefs underneath, and he doesn’t even pause before he’s ripping that off, too, exposing Connor’s quivering entrance.

It’s been awhile since they last fucked; but it’s not like Connor doesn’t like the burn. He likes it when it hurts.

Markus shoves his fingers into Connor’s mouth, and Connor bites down on them, licking around the two digits. The larger man pushes Connor’s head down so he’d choke on the digits, muttering, “Make it count, you fucking slut,”

Connor _shudders_ , but nonetheless follows, coating his lover’s fingers with saliva. This is all he’s going to get. Two fingers and spit. It’s more than he deserves, really. Elijah told him he deserves way, way less.

When Markus pulls his fingers out, he doesn’t waste any time shoving them into Connor’s ass, making the man shriek in pain, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

 _This_ , his mind giggles in abstract pleasure, _is so much fucking better_.

“Is that all you can do, you little bitch?” Connor spits out, and Markus slams his sadistic little grin down on the hardwood floor, his teeth clacking dangerously against it.

The man growls and begins screwing Connor with his fingers, mercilessly and beautifully, “Shut the _fuck up_ ,”

Connor laughs. “Make me,”

“I’ll make you,” Markus threatens, mounting Connor from behind, his spit slick fingers wrapping around Connor’s neck and _holding him down_ , making it so he can’t breathe, and Connor nods, because all of it, Markus’ hand, the weight of his prick against Connor’s entrance, the way Markus’ knees bracketed him, kept him there, rendered him immobile, all of it is _too much_. “I’ll fucking make you,”

And with that, he drives _home_.

Connor screams, arching downwards underneath the man’s heavy weight.

“ _Harder_ ,” He shrieks, and Markus presses a soft, silently apologetic kiss against the back of his neck, having draped himself along Connor’s back. “Markus,” Connor begins to chant, fucking back onto the man’s cock, not caring that it _drags,_  “ _Markus_ , faster,”

Loud moans escape his lips, sounds Connor’s sure he hasn’t heard before from himself, and Markus is pulling the sounds out of him like it’s no problem at all, like he _knows_ , and Connor bites his lip until a bloom of blood graces his tongue.

They fuck like animals. Connor with his ass up, head down, and neck exposed. Markus, bent over Connor’s form, thrusting without any rhyme or rhythm, chasing only after what he wants.

Connor’s own prick is trapped inside his jeans, his stomach twisting with the need to come, but Markus pulls his torn button down until it locks his arms together by the elbow, making it so it’s hard to breathe and hard to move.

It’s so fucking _good_.

Without any warning, Markus flips them both so one of Connor’s legs is held up high into the air, his arms still bound, Markus’ hand gripping his neck from the front. His cock doesn’t slip out, not once, and when he resumes thrusting into Connor, he _hits_ his sweet spot, and Connor’s eyesight blurs, whitens around the edges. The hardwood begins to nip at his skin, but Connor can’t care less, especially when he’s being fucked on his side like this, completely at Markus’ mercy.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Markus breathes into the skin of his neck, biting there, “I’m gonna come inside you,” he quickly decides, “Fill you up, and then I’ll fuck you again,”

Connor helplessly nods. Yes, yes, Markus is right.

Markus _knows_.

“Yeah?” Markus asks, and Connor can feel his grin against his neck. “You want me to fuck your sloppy ass again?”

 _Yes, yes, yes_ —

Connor chokes as Markus pulls him down onto his cock, the man’s hot seed filling him up, but it’s not enough, _Markus, it’s not enough—_

“Work for it then, you beautiful fucking slut,” Markus pushes Connor off once he’s done, and Connor gets on his hands and knees, crawling where Markus has placed himself against the foot of his bed, his cock dark and limp against his sweatpants.

There’s blood on it, and traces of his come.

“My turn?” He asks.

Markus pushes the hair that’s fallen in front of Connor’s head and laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “Anything for you, sweetpea,”

Connor starts licking up and down his man’s prick, coaxing it to harden up again, even though he knows it’ll take a little while. He sucks down Markus’ cock in one quick motion, and Markus groans tiredly, bucking up into Connor’s mouth. He’s still not hard.

He tries everything. He fondles Markus’ balls, taking his time to carefully suck them into his mouth, he tries shoving a dry finger up the man’s ass, but none of it _works_.

Finally growing tired, Connor puts his hand over Markus’ mouth and straddles his waist, shoving the half-hard cock into his hole. He’s going to get what he wants. It’s _his turn_.

He _deserves it_.

“Jesus,” Markus moans, “Baby, slow dow—”

“Shut up!” Connor tightens his hand around Markus’ mouth, making frenzied motions with his hips. They hurt from where Markus left stark bruises with his hands.  “Shut up, I need to,  _I need to_ —”

Markus nods when Connor squeezes around him, his eyes impossibly soft.

It’s only then that Connor realises that Markus does truly love him.

Jhene was right, after all.

He begins riding Markus in earnest, using the man for his pleasure, the drag of Markus’ cock sweet and fulfilling. Even with Markus half-hard like this, Connor’s never felt more full, as if he couldn’t take anymore.

But he can, and he will.

“I love you,” Markus whispers into the skin of his hand as Connor bounces on his lap, his dick now hanging out from his fly, “ _I_ _love you_.”

Connor smiles, nodding. Yes. Markus loves him.

When he comes, he squeezes around Markus so tight it pulls out a dry orgasm from the man, he whispers back, “ _Good_.”

**

Of course they call him in to ID his own father, even when the man’s half-dead and mangled. The other body is a man named Leo Towne, no living relatives. But he knows better. Markus told Connor that the man is his brother, but no one has to know, right? If Markus keeps his secrets, then Connor should, too.

That’s what couples do, right?

His father’s in a hospital room now, connected to all these tubes, his face bandaged. Connor can’t see his face, or his eyes. Somehow, it makes all of this so much easier. Elijah wouldn’t be looking at him with those blue, blue eyes of his, telling him he’s _not enough_ , that he should _shut up and suck daddy’s cock—_

Connor sits down on the chair beside his father’s bedside and watches him, silently begging for him to ask ‘ _who’s_ _there_?’. Elijah’s helpless, now.

“I brought you your favourite,” Connor says, lifting up a paper bag from _Cook’s_. He smiles, shaking the bag, waiting for Elijah to move. “Blueberry scones.”

He puts it down on the nightstand and leans back into his chair. Connor feels a smile pull his lips to opposite ends. “I met someone, dad,” He begins, “and I think I love him.”

Elijah’s fingers twitch at that. Connor scoffs.

Connor looks up out the window, out into the bright blue skies. It’s a nice day. Christmas is coming, and he’s not spending it alone. “It’s nice to know that you never really changed.”

After an hour of saying nothing, Connor stands up, laces his fingers through his father’s, and presses a kiss on top of the bandages, and then pulls away. He almost wishes he can see Elijah’s eyes, just for one last time.

“Make sure you eat, okay?” He whispers against Elijah’s forehead. The man’s fingers twitch again. Markus is going to pick him up, soon. The bag of blueberry scones innocently sit beside Elijah’s bed, slowly turning cold as Connor takes his leave.

**

North does a toast. She’s invited Markus and Josh over, and consequently, Connor is there, too. She’s got a lovely family. It’s Christmas, and Markus feels warm when he sees the love of his life with Alice in his lap, regaling him stories of when she and Luther braved the three foot high snow, and the weird neighbours they have.

Markus has never had a family quite like this before.

Josh absolutely loves Connor; finds his dry humour funny. North’s a bit on the fence, after everything that’s happened, but she’s slowly warming up to him, too. Especially when Connor gifted her and her wife matching knitted mittens. Markus can’t say he’s jealous, when Connor spent half of the drive over keeping Markus’ cock warm in his mouth.

Tit for tat, you know?

Markus looks down at his glass of wine, swirling it lazily. He’s realised, these past few days, the Connor’s eyes are less coffee brown but more like the savoury darkness of wine. Intoxicating. Beautiful. Sometimes, they’re gold, though. Sometimes, they’re as black as night.

Now, he knows that Connor’s eyes aren’t just brown.

Isn’t that nice?

When Alice has exhausted herself telling her new friend about all the things, she moans at North to tell her a story before she goes to bed, and the woman rolls her eyes, but follows her daughter’s request. Connor moves from the couch to sit on Markus’ lap, taking his glass of wine and downing it all in one go. Right. Markus is driving home tonight. They’ve got a dog and some unfinished business to go home to. He doesn’t want to wrap the car around a fucking tree now, does he?

Kara smiles at both of them, rubbing a hand over her distended stomach. She looks beautiful. “I never thought I’d see you this happy, Markus,” she kindly says, “North always seemed like she couldn’t—” She cuts herself off. “I’m _happy_ that she’s helped you. I’m glad I got to see this.”

Markus smiles back. “Your wife is a great therapist, Kara.”

That makes the woman laugh. “Oh, definitely. I love it when she psychoanalyses me over dinner.”

“For what it’s worth,” He puts his hand over his fiancé’s hip, squeezing lightly. “I’m thankful North helped me the way she did.”

Kara doesn’t know. Hysterical.

Connor laughs against his lips when they kiss, tasting like cherries and wine. “You complete sap.”

“Aw,” Markus nuzzles at his neck, where a well-hidden litany of bruises are formed. “You love me though, don’t you, baby?”

His fiancé fondly shakes his head and hums his answer.

**

At least Markus has the decency to not take Connor’s jacket off when he fucks him against the truck, his legs high on Markus’ shoulders, the man’s hand wrapped around Connor’s prick, jacking him off with the rhythm of his thrusts. The whole car moves with the force of Markus driving into his fiancé.

“ _Markus_!” Connor whines, high-pitched and helpless, grappling at Markus’ broad shoulders. “I’m gonna come!”

He nods and kisses Connor again, desperately. “Together, baby, together,” he chants, and not before long, he’s spilling into Connor’s already filled hole, and Connor is fucking into Markus’ fist, coming a few seconds after him.

Connor pats his back. “Jesus,” he pants, “That was good.”

“Fuck, I think I threw out my back.”

That makes Connor snort, “Shut up and get me my jeans,”

Markus hands Connor his jeans and watches him put it on, smiling at Connor’s innocently sinuous movements. He’s effortlessly beautiful, Markus concludes.

His fiancé leans up and presses a chaste kiss against his lips, his breath warm. Markus loves him so much.

“Better check on our precious cargo.” Connor helpfully reminds him, and Markus makes a little _ah_ sound, before doing just that. When he pops open the trunk, one blue eye stares up at him. Connor’s Christmas gift to him. The one that got away.

Not that Markus particularly care that he got away.

He’s got Connor now, and Connor’s got him.

Markus laughs to himself. _Unfinished business_. His baby’s smart like that.

“Hey, buddy,” Markus calmly greets, “You good in there?”

Simon writhes and tries to scream.

Connor’s really good at this ‘tying people up’ thing. Huh. Well, the more you know.

It’s good, spending the holidays with people you love.

**Author's Note:**

> PAINTINGS, in order that they appear:  
> Johannes Vermeer, [The Music Lesson](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Music_Lesson)  
> Frida Kahlo, [El Autobus](https://www.fridakahlo.org/the-bus.jsp)  
> Rafael, [Madonna del Granduca](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Madonna_del_Granduca)  
> Francisco Goya, [Saturn Devours His Son](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saturn_Devouring_His_Son)


End file.
